


And the World Stood Still

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-08-09
Updated: 2000-08-09
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 48,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.





	1. And the World Stood Still

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

Friday, 8:30 P.M.

For those individuals either influential enough or just *lucky* enough to obtain admission, a seat at a banquet with the President as guest speaker was not to be missed. For those who did not qualify on either account, waiting outside near the parked motorcade was the next best thing, even at night, especially if they had set their VCRs in advance. While hearing The Man speak could be inspiring in itself, even on tape at home and after the fact, seeing him up close *and* in the flesh far surpassed any impersonal image on TV.

Nor were these vigils so very boring as a rule. In winter well-muffled bodies huddled for warmth; in rain they shared umbrellas; in anything else (such as *this* night, a cool summer evening), the lack of physical distraction increased the chatter. Perfect strangers struck up casual conversation with anyone else nearby, discussing aspects of the President's administration in general or the President's policies in particular, or even the President's personality for that matter. Sometimes an especially foresighted citizen would bring a portable television set for catching the live broadcast of the speech, and even the smallest screens attracted a considerable knot of instantaneous new friends. Plus, the most experienced among them could surmise some of what was going on inside by watching the Secret Service agents scattered about, their military stiffness predictable and their discreet but visible earphones a dead giveaway.

Sure enough, their first stir towards full attention indicated that the speech had concluded and that the guest of honor would soon be leaving. Engines were started and lights switched on up and down the length of the limousine motorcade and its formidable escort. Discussions waned and excitement climbed. Then there followed the inevitable, interminable delay inside as officials clustered around to praise this latest political triumph and as security cleared the halls for departure. Many people *out*side regretted the level of precaution that had to be observed wherever their President went, since it not only made him late but also made it hard for his fellow Americans to see him at close proximity for any length of time.

At long last a door to one side swung open - never the most obvious exit, for obvious reasons - and a veritable parade of men in pristine eveningwear poured out. But the people behind the barriers had eyes for only one of them. Near the troupe's middle ranks, surrounded by activity like the calm eye of a hurricane, not standing out much at all in the unbroken sea of black tuxedos and white shirts worn by all of them (designed to provide precisely that kind of camouflage), not even very striking in height or build, he nevertheless drew everyone's attention without fail. And it wasn't just the familiar face, either. Something about that carriage proclaimed a generous nature, a famous humor... and a degree of supreme political power that few individuals in the history of the entire world could ever know.

The crowd cheered, personal political affiliations forgotten, vying for a good view. Usually he accepted their approval with a word of thanks; now and then those in the first row would overhear snippets of a discussion between him and his staff; on a rare occasion he'd been known to honor one or two of the nearest fans with a brief chat or joke. Certainly, no matter how rushed he might be, President Josiah Bartlet never failed to pause a few moments in full sight and wave his gratitude that all of them were willing to wait so long just for him. He always said he owed their patience that much at the very least.

This night must have been one of the more hurried ones. He strode silently past a hundred applauding supporters to his limo (one of two identical choices, so that any potential attacker would have only a fifty percent chance of guessing right), halted for no more than five seconds to face the people, smile and raise a hand in acknowledgement of their enthusiasm, then ducked inside. The trailing staff members scrambled for their own vehicles and the motorcade started to move, that all-important limo nestled protectively in its center, flanked fore and aft by police motorcycles and Secret Service sedans, red lights flashing away.

Was the long vigil worth that mere glimpse of greatness? You'd have to ask each individual spectator, and you'd certainly get some answers other than a confident "Yes" or a disappointed "No". Celebrity-watching has ever remained a matter of personal perspective.

From the perspective of the man at the center of all this, now cruising through Washington's broad streets, the evening had been a grand success. He sat back against the plush leather upholstery, laced his fingers behind his head, and released a broad grin as the city lights twinkled past, their glow dimmed by highly-tinted, bulletproof auto-glass.

"Ah, this is the life."

The Secret Service agent seated across from him, just as neatly attired yet stiff and silent like a soldier on parade, did not reply. Nor did the driver, fully focused on piloting this ponderous parade float. The broad avenue ahead was an otherwise-deserted corridor in both directions, and every side street had been blocked off by police as well, guaranteeing unimpeded passage, their cherries winking in salute.

The limo's privileged passenger didn't let the professional reticence of his two companions dissuade him. "I remember the first time I had to drive myself through this town." He shook his head. "It was a nightmare."

And it still could be...

The chauffeur realized it first. Checking his mirrors and sides constantly, he glanced right, took a second, longer look - and yelled one word of dire warning:

*"ALERT!"*

Both men in the rear seats at once sat up, grasping with immediate trepidation that something was seriously wrong, but they had no chance to ask where or even what the problem was. In the next second a blaze of white headlights flooded the limo's starboard side as a fast-swerving sedan launched itself from out of nowhere and rocketed towards them in an undeniable collision course.

The President threw up a hand at this painful glare, and heard the harsh squeal of tires on asphalt as his well-trained driver tried to dodge in the pitifully-brief moment left. A stretch-limousine, however, is not the most maneuverable of vehicles, ranking just ahead of an inter-city bus. The reinforced windows did not disguise the details of the charging car grill - it was already that close - or seal out the roar of a racing engine. And not even these fully-armored pseudo-tanks would be proof against the impact of a half-ton steel missile at high speed. Time might have appeared to freeze itself upon this very instant, so swiftly did the mind perceive each detail... yet there was no time to duck, to summon help, even to cry out. The national might of the United States could not block the inexorable approach of destruction. All that its leader could do, in that splintered heartbeat, was shut his eyes and turn his face away.

The out-of-control sedan followed its own high-beams, as if homing in on the passenger door's presidential seal that they lit so perfectly, and smashed the entire middle span of the limo in upon itself. Shattering steel and plate-glass and the precision of an American top-security motorcade all at once. The limo slammed sideways, rubber and metal shrilled in mutual protest, its once-flawless length literally bending under the savage force. Both vehicles pinwheeled across three lanes - you can thank DC police efficiency for clearing the street of all other traffic - as the entire presidential entourage disintegrated into chaos. Voices wailed into wrist-radios and screeched out of earphones. Cruisers and motorcycles either sprang frantically forward or raced desperately back, sweeping in from all directions like a cloud of flies, even before the limo's twisted wreckage quite stopped moving. Their emergency lights painted the night scene with blood-red strokes as security agents and staff members boiled out onto the pavement and rushed to the aid of the limo chauffeur, the escorting bodyguard... and the man they were all supposed to protect.

The man who now lay in the middle of the street. A crumpled and motionless heap of once-pristine gentleman's elegance, surrounded by metal fragments, glass shards - and damp stains that looked black in the merciless illumination of the encircling headlamps.

*****

Leo McGarry leaped out of his chair, dead-white in an instant. *"WHAT?"* he shouted into the phone receiver, his expression a study in total horror.

The secretary to the White House Chief of Staff jumped at her boss's bellow. Leo didn't apologize; this jolt was nothing. "Margaret! Get everyone in here *NOW!*"

She took one look at him and asked no questions.

Donna burst into Josh Lyman's office just as explosively, and even more panic-stricken. "Josh. *EMERGENCY.*"

The Deputy Chief of Staff, on his own phone, hesitated only long enough to meet her frantic eye. "Call you back," he interrupted his chat, hung up without waiting for confirmation, and scrambled to his feet.

"Toby!"

Toby Ziegler's head bobbed up from his paperwork. Mandy Hampton stood framed in the doorway of his office, her stiff, unnatural stance shrieking disaster.

She gasped out only two desperate words. "The motorcade - "

Without a word, the Communications Director dropped his pen and followed her.

Sam Seaborn walked into the bullpen, arms loaded with take-out food, just in time to be met by a breathless Cathy. "Sam! Thank heavens you're back! Leo's office, *fast!*"

"Oh, hell. What's happened now?" The Deputy Communications Director dropped his warm package onto the nearest desk, changed direction and accelerated, all thought of supper gone in a trice.

Bonnie converged from the other side, clearly having picked up on the grapevine as well. "Whatever it is, it's *bad!*" Both women ran to keep up with him.

Now running himself, he led the way through the rabbit's warren of halls that formed the backstage of the West Wing. "Then it can only be the President."

CJ Cregg was sharing a laugh with Danny Concannon by one of the water coolers when Josh rounded a nearby corner at a *very* quick march and seized her arm in passing, dragging her forcibly after him and almost yanking her off her feet to boot.

"Hey -!" She fast got the idea that this was no joke. "What is it?" And a hideous suspicion reared its terrible head in the next two strides at his ominous silence. "Not the -"

"There's been an accident," Josh said shortly without looking back at her. And needed say no more.

"My God." She shook free and picked up the pace, high heels notwithstanding.

Eyes wide, Danny followed as far as he dared, right to the last door beyond which no member of the White House Press Corps may go. And cursed his lesser status for denying him one whopper of a scoop from the very source.

Toby detoured briefly by way of reception outside the Oval Office. The personal secretary to the President glanced up at his swift arrival, and her words of welcome died stillborn at the grim caste to his face.

He strode right up to her, as imperious as any of the Secret Service could hope to be. "Mrs. Landingham, you'll want to hear this."

No news travels faster than tragic news. A veritable flood of humanity streamed towards a common destination: the only possible source of fact. In mere minutes every corridor in the building was deserted - save one. Holding court before as many of the several dozen late-working employees as could cram into his office, Leo cleared up what he could.

"It was a drunk driver. Of all places in the city and all the hours in the day, about fifteen minutes ago he blew past the police escort, lost control of his car... and broadsided the President's limousine."

A choked whisper of shock rippled through the packed room - and quickly stilled again. Waiting anxiously for each word.

"The chauffeur has only minor injuries; he at least was wearing a seatbelt. The escorting bodyguard is critical."

Leo paused, struggling for self-control. Not a sound interrupted him, but every other heart present was screaming one unified thought: *No, don't tell us he's dead, he CAN'T be dead - *

For those old enough to remember, this was *way* too much like Dallas in 1963.

"The President is... at this time... still alive."

A concert of held breaths wheezed out at that postponement of the worst-case scenario. Still, there would be no celebrating just yet. Only *at this time - *

Leo consulted the paper he held, adjusting his spectacles as though he couldn't quite believe what he saw through them. "They only just got him to Walter Reed, so we don't have much yet in the way of details. At the very least there are fractures, internal injuries, possible spinal damage, massive bleeding... and trauma to the head." The Chief of Staff paused for breath. "He was thrown from the limo."

Almost everyone winced and several groaned in vivid sympathy.

Very quietly, "They don't yet know if they can save him."

Every single face wore the exact same tormented expression: *He's the President! He HAS to survive!*

Leo sighed wearily, helplessly, and lowered the list of damages. Not looking up. "They'll tell us more as soon as they have it."

For several moments, no one else seemed capable of speech or even thought. They were all completely stunned that so simple and careless an act, and the preservation of a single life, could have such tremendous repercussions, for the nation as a whole and for themselves as a functioning unit. It was as if, with the fall of their leader, they had absolutely no idea just what to do next.

And it seemed inconceivable that the rest of the world right outside was proceeding as usual with its multitude of standard activities, totally unaffected. In the White House, life had come to a screeching halt.

Toby stirred first. "What about his family?"

"Both the First Lady and Zoey have already gone to the hospital. The Secret Service have some people on the phone, but I think there are still several out-of-town relations who haven't been reached yet."

A respectful silence.

Leo drew himself up with an effort. "Much as I'd prefer that they find out through a personal call rather than over the air waves, there's no way we can sit on this. CJ, you'll hold a briefing within the hour, as soon as I get a complete diagnosis. And I have no doubt the press room will be full before then."

The White House Press Secretary nodded stiffly. "No doubt."

But just what would she be reporting: injuries... or *death?*

"The attending staffers for this low-profile thing were Charlie, Franco, Colette, Nancy and Rick. Charlie's staying on at the hospital as long as it takes." Translation: until he was needed either to assist the President's homecoming - or to accompany the President's coffin. "Sam, I want you to keep in touch with him; the kid's pretty shaken up."

The Deputy Communications Director nodded understandingly. "Right."

"The others are on their way here; I'll speak to them myself. Mandy, you might as well start tracking the world news cycle now. God only knows what kind of effect this is going to have on our Middle Eastern fan club."

The public relations specialist nodded readily. "Agreed."

Everyone grasped the concern at once. Certain famously volatile nations might choose this moment of U.S. executive disruption to do something rash. And that was a complication that nobody needed right now.

Leo hesitated again, struck by a new thought. "Oh, before anyone gets any bright ideas about paying a visit to show support, that entire wing of the hospital has been completely locked down. *No one* gets in." He exhaled. "Not even me."

And this time everyone present heard the anguish he was trying so hard to hide. With all his being, Leo wanted to be at Jed Bartlet's side right now. And he had two extremely compelling reasons to claim that right: he was the President's closest confidant and right-hand man... and he was the President's oldest and dearest friend.

But Secret Service procedure made no allowances for human feelings.

He pressed on quickly with business, before his emotions got the better of him. "And I know how good the scuttlebutt is around here at warping the facts. Toby, I'll make sure any hint of further development gets to you, so that you can keep the whole staff up to date. We don't want anyone spreading hysterics, or scheduling time off for a state funeral before we know it's necessary." And despite this somewhat brutal choice of phrasing, his compassion for the other employees and their own near-panic came through.

Toby inclined his head. "With enough luck and prayer, it won't be."

"Amen." Echoing every listener's sentiments. "Josh, you're with me. The Vice-President is flying out of Atlanta ASAP; he should get here by midnight. The whole Cabinet will assemble as well. We have to implement the Constitution, like it or not."

Several people flinched. The 25th Amendment outlined exactly how to go about replacing the President - temporarily *and* permanently.

Josh rolled his eyes. "This'll be the most fun of all."

"Yeah, tell me about it," his boss agreed morosely.

There was nothing more to be said. Gradually an atmosphere of resuming at least *some* order, of buckling down for the long haul, of getting the crisis work done since nothing *else* could be done - indeed of just filling time and waiting for more news, good or *bad* - permeated the room. The only thing any of them could do was hope for the best.

And fear the worst.

Leo dropped notes and glasses onto his desk with an air of finality. "As of now, all non-essential operations, and most of the essential ones, are on hold till further notice. When we know more about the President's convalescence -" he swallowed, but drove himself on, refusing to consider any other option yet "- we'll prioritize whatever issues can't hold that long. In the meantime, all of you might as well go home and *try* to rest up a bit. Senior staff, forget any plans you've made for the weekend. We're going to have quite a time of it."

Not a soul present moved. Clearly they didn't want to risk being out of the information loop for a single moment, couldn't bear the thought of being anywhere else but on hand to hear the next bulletin as soon as humanly possible. It was far past the standard quitting time on a Friday night, but no one said a word about leaving.

The Chief of Staff had turned away, a hand across his eyes as though physically holding back the fear that threatened to undermine his huge responsibilities in the here and now. But he soon noticed this quiet reigning at his back. And slowly revolved, to face a room of silent, united resolution to stick it out.

He regarded them solemnly... and nodded. "Suit yourselves. Believe me, I know how you all feel. But as much as I hate to admit it, we can't help him right now. We're just going to have to wait and see - and deal with whatever happens."

On that pointed dismissal, people gradually and reluctantly began to disperse. Many banded into pairs or small groups, sharing their whispered anxieties, drawing strength from each other, afraid to be alone. Some returned to their duty stations, plunked down in front of paperwork that helped run a nation, yet had suddenly shrunk in importance, and just gazed into space. True, the West Wing never completely slept, with various items on the burner day and night... but what did the finer details of bureaucracy and politics matter now?

The senior staff lingered behind, in case Leo had further comments specifically for them. And because, as those employees with the closest relationship to their Chief Executive, they could not do otherwise. Finding what comfort could be had in togetherness.

The silence and stillness stretched out as they traded glances full of meaning. No words were needed. Mandy leaned into Josh, who put a supportive arm around her. CJ and Sam moved closer together on voiceless, mutual accord until their shoulders touched. Toby stood a bit apart, steepled fingers held to his lips as though in prayer this very minute.

Both hands braced on his desk, head hanging as if he hadn't the energy or the will to lift it, Leo finally looked up. His face drawn and haggard.

Not at all surprised to find them there, watching him.

He didn't have to speak, either. Their tortured features said it all.

*****


	2. And the World Stood Still 2

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

If this primary and most prestigious source of news in the country never slept, then neither did the press - which meant that their representatives rarely got a night off either. Well within that promised hour, a score and more of White House Press Corps reporters waited eagerly in the crowded Press Room for what had to be the story of the year.

When CJ marched in the buzz of rumor and hypothesis stopped at once, so that not one word would be missed. And a good thing, for she started in with no preliminaries at all.

"Just so you all know, I'm going to give you all the known details up front. So please don't ask me questions to which I simply don't have the answers."

Hers was the face and the personality that most of the media dealt directly with for the vast majority of the time. As a result, she worked hard to cultivate a relationship of openness and trust, since her level of credibility leant an additional dose of sincerity to the President's public statements and actions. However, the current sharpness to her tone implied that tonight would not be the usual exercise in diplomatic wording and political correctness. She looked physically strained and in no mood for the reserve that her job normally demanded.

"At eight-thirty-eight this evening, the President departed from the Dupont Hotel, after delivering a speech to the ACLU. Meanwhile, one Stanley Bernardo was likewise driving home, alone, with rather more than the legal amount of alcohol in his bloodstream. Why he had a license to drive in the first place is under investigation," she added with an undertone of quiet viciousness. "In any event, he chose to go via N Street, which at that moment was blocked off for the President's passage back to the White House. In his inebriated state he saw the green traffic signal, but he didn't see the DC police officer barring his way. Somehow he swerved safely around the parked motorcycle, and ran straight out onto Connecticut Avenue."

The words became even more clipped, an official report stripped of its emotion - almost. "And of the entire twenty-odd-vehicle motorcade, he still managed to hit the presidential limousine."

The room was silent. A teeth-gritted silence that stretched the nerves taut.

"Now we know why these official processions always include an ambulance - and never have I been more grateful for that fact." CJ paused grimly. "It is not yet certain just how fast Mr. Bernardo was traveling, but suffice to say that both vehicles are write-offs. The limo driver has been treated for whiplash and should be released in the morning. The accompanying Secret Service agent, Kevin Duane, apparently threw himself in front of the President and tried to take the brunt of the impact; at least, that's what is currently being hypothesized. They had to cut him out of what remained of the back seat. He's in Intensive Care in Walter Reed, clinging to life somehow, but we don't have any further detail as to his condition."

CJ had to pause again. "Fortunately - or *un*fortunately, depending on your personal tolerance level - we now have considerable detail on the condition of the President himself."

And paused yet again. "This information is current as of three minutes ago."

And the very same thought cannoned through every media mind: might something *else* have happened in those three minutes since?

No one dared say that aloud... as though by not giving it voice, it couldn't come true.

Taking a deep breath, she flipped the page of her report. "The list is daunting. At least he's been quasi-stabilized by now, but he's breathing only with mechanical assistance, and he still hasn't regained consciousness. There's a greenstick fracture of the left ulna. Fractured tarsal bones in the right ankle. Trauma to four thoracic vertebrae, although no evidence of spinal injury *yet*. Two cracked ribs, three bruised ribs. Two confirmed puncture wounds from metal fragments, in the abdomen and in the chest. At least the internal bleeding has been brought under control, I'm told. There's also a considerable assortment of lacerations and contusions, as might be expected from being hurled through a bulletproof window and then rolled across asphalt." Yet another pause. "And to cap it off, a fracture of the temporal bones of the skull."

CJ slowly removed her glasses and surveyed the room in near-despair. "We're just hoping that won't result in brain damage."

Normally most of the people seated before her would raise arms and shout questions the moment she gave them an opening. Their current stillness felt positively unnatural. For once, everyone in this room of paparazzo adversaries seemed in total agreement. Or shock.

The Press Secretary shook her head dispiritedly. "Right now, all I can think about is the similarity to the 'Titanic'. If, if, if. If this guy had gone anywhere else for happy hour; if he'd left the bar just a bit sooner - or just a bit later; if his timing behind the wheel had been a few seconds off either way; if the *President's* timing had been a few seconds different; if the President had been sitting on the other side of the limo's back seat..."

Sighing, she rubbed a hand over her face. "As for Mr. Bernardo, he is in Secret Service custody pending formal charges. What do you expect: the man walked away with just a few scratches." Her lip curled, like a wolf baring its teeth prior to the attack.

"Also, a few of the President's more distant family members have not yet been notified. But I'm sure you'll take care of that for us, hmm?"

That was pretty much guaranteed. Nothing would hold this newsflash back.

However much CJ might have hoped, this would not turn out to be the dreamed-of press conference completed with no questions at all. One woman finally spoke up.

"Are we to conclude that the Vice-President is now going to assume executive authority until the President has recovered? Assuming he *does* recover, of course."

CJ stiffened. Until now she had steadfastly avoided thinking about that entire scenario. But such a blatant reference to replacing President Bartlet, possibly forever, scored deep. She suddenly looked far less concerned than usual about the public (read *media*) opinion by which all politicians had to navigate to survive.

"Nah, why don't we wheel the President's hospital bed and all of its life-support equipment right into the Oval Office? I'm sure he won't let *that* inconvenience get in his way." She was losing the battle with herself; the distress couldn't be denied any longer. "One doesn't become President in the first place without having a very strong will - but people have died from lighter injuries than this. Do you need to hear me actually say it? *NO*, we still don't know for sure if he'll pull through. But we have to keep the nation running anyway."

CJ heaved another ragged sigh and slumped heavily against the podium, drained by her outburst. "Since you asked, Fran, you must know what the Constitution says, and the reason why it says it. Amendment twenty-five, section four. Look it up."

"And has Vice-President Hoynes said anything - "

She slapped her folder shut in overspilling irritation, usually so cool and composed, usually the last one to lose her temper. "Look, I said at the start that I'd give you everything I have. Now you know as much as I do. And *I* know your editors are all waiting anxiously to launch their emergency broadcasts and early editions, so I'd advise you not to waste each others' time. As for myself, I've got nothing *but* time to waste tonight. When I get more information, whenever that may be, and whether it's for better or worse, rest assured I'll let you know."

And on that note, CJ strode brusquely from the room.

Seated several rows back, Danny jumped up and followed her. She gave no sign that she noticed him, hurrying through the winding West Wing corridors as though the only important thing right now was putting as much distance as possible between herself and the unpleasant news she had just released that was about to wake up an unsuspecting America. Never mind the rest of the world.

"Are you all right?" he called after her.

CJ didn't slow down, knowing that he intended to accompany her all the way back to her office whether she gave him permission to do so or not.

"Sure - why *wouldn't* I be?" she flung over her shoulder, turning another corner even faster. "Look, I'm not a night person, *okay?* At least not when it's the night that the leader of the free world chooses to pick a fight with a speeding sedan and lose." As if all this were the President's fault. That in itself was a clear indication of just how agitated she felt; the senior staff never poked *malicious* fun at their Commander-in-Chief.

"Worried about your job?"

She whirled on the newshound so fast he almost banged into her, and her eyes were flaming as they hadn't before despite the tension of her public statement earlier. "That's rather heartless, Danny. Even for a reporter. And especially for you. Sure, a new President probably means a new Press Secretary. Like I really care right now."

He raised both hands at once in desperate defense. "Hey, I didn't mean it that way, honest! What I tried to say was, I know you're worried about *doing* your job. That *had* to be the hardest briefing you've done in your life. And you were good, CJ. Sure, you're upset. I understand. So does everyone else."

Their respective careers aside, they liked each other. A lot. Even after the whole issue on conflicting interests, an almost visible attraction persisted. But decorum had to be observed, and a battle of wits made a pretty good smoke-screen. Normally CJ would counter his wisecracking advances without delay or effort. It had become almost second nature.

Not this time, however. This time her expression was hard.

"And I make no excuses for it. Contrary to popular belief, some people actually *like* the President - both as a politician, and as a person." And she meant every word.

Danny grinned automatically. "Can I quote you?"

"You can haul your wisecracking butt out of here," she virtually snarled, resuming her flight in a desperate effort to leave him behind.

"Okay, okay! CJ, I'm sorry! No more jokes, all right? It's the stress talking. CJ - "

"Go - away - *now*." Her office was only a few more yards ahead and she gained enough of a lead to swing the door shut between them.

He blocked it before the latch caught, and calmly let himself in. "I don't think so."

Halfway across the modest room, CJ immediately reversed course at his presumption, threw her file at her desk - as opposed to *on* it - and advanced upon him with clenched teeth. She was taller by a good two inches in those heels and looked ready to turn that height advantage into a *physical* advantage. "*I do*, and don't think I won't throw you out myself."

Danny closed the door and set his back against it just as she seized him by the lapels. His actions were so audacious, and so quietly determined, that she hesitated in surprise.

"Look, you know that *I* know and like the President myself. *I'm* really worried about him, too." He drew in a not-entirely-steady breath. "CJ, I don't want to go back to my desk alone and just wait for the next bulletin. I'd much rather wait with a friend." And paused again. "How about you?"

For several seconds neither of them moved, eyes deadlocked.

Right here, right now, they had something in common. Something very strong. Something completely unrelated to romance. *Fear.*

When the truth of that finally got past her tough, no-nonsense personal armor, CJ did not admit aloud that Danny was right... but she did move her hands from his blazer to his shoulders, as though seeking support. Bowed her head, blinking back tears. And didn't resist when he drew her into a gentle hug.

*****


	3. And the World Stood Still 3

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

In his office, Toby was alone and working - or rather, *attempting* to work. At first glance, one would assume him to be intensely focused on the drift of pages across his desk. His stillness seemed to endorse this image... but each effort at cohesive thought ended either in a depressing daydream or in a passing interruption. And there were plenty of both.

"Toby, have you heard anything?" one of the clerks asked in passing.

Chin in palm as though in deep contemplation, he didn't look up. "No."

"Damn. Well, if you do, you'll let me know?"

"Sure."

"Thanks." The guy left.

Toby fiddled aimlessly with his pen, then started tapping it against the desk's blotter in a preoccupied, mechanical fashion. *One, two, three, four, five - *

Sure enough, another head poked in. "Toby, anything new?"

He still didn't look up. "Not yet."

"Oh. Well, if something comes in - "

"I'll let you know."

"Right. Sorry to bother you."

"Oh, you're not bothering me," he muttered. "Why would anyone think that?" But the asker had already left. Just as well; it was hardly true, anyway.

*One, two, three, four - *

"Toby?"

Might as well nip this one in the bud. "No, there's nothing new."

"Thanks. Uh, can I stay for a bit anyway?"

For the first time his gaze lifted. Sam leaned on the door jam, hands in pockets, tie askew, as preoccupied and at loose ends as everyone else *except* his boss did not deny feeling.

"Oh, sure. I can use the distraction."

"Yeah, I can see that." Sam slipped quietly into a chair opposite, crossed his arms, and said nothing. Seemingly content just to be there.

Toby returned his unfocused vision to the desktop. And after a fairly long pause he commented idly, "You do realize that the strong, silent approach is not going to wheedle out information that does not exist?"

Sam shrugged. "Well, I had hopes. But at least here I'll get it as fast as you do."

"You don't have some urgent task to do like everyone else?"

"Well, a little while ago my task consisted of bringing in late night provisions. And seeing as my last delivery has long since grown cold and soggy, resuming my duties would mean that I'd have to go out for more." He raised both hands, as though this young yet astute political expert was actually unable to make a decision. "And for some unaccountable reason I'm experiencing a real reluctance to absent myself for any length of time in the foreseeable future."

"Gosh, I wonder why."

"Maybe it's agoraphobia. That would give me a patented excuse to stay here all night."

"How convenient. Whoever files first will be awarded the license."

A deep quiet very irregular for the West Wing descended around them. For two heartbeats.

"Toby - " a new voice began from the door.

"No, I do not have any new information, and yes, I will let you know when I do." He didn't look up.

" - O-*kay*. Bye." Warned by this too-level tone, the woman departed quickly.

In the restored illusion of peace, Sam scratched his jaw where the hint of five o'clock shadow had begun to itch. And glanced at his boss somewhat enviously; men with established beards never looked so unkempt.

But on the down side, the beard did accentuate the shadows around his boss's face.

Toby sighed, still not raising his eyes. "I'm going to kill him."

Sam blinked. "Who - Leo? Or the President?"

"Whichever of them I run across first." Someone less familiar with the Communications Director might actually believe him. "Leo for setting me up as the central switchboard to a hundred apoplectic employees who won't leave me alone... and the President for not having the grace to miraculously heal himself at once and put us all out of our misery."

"I'll be sure to mention that you're gunning for them. The President will definitely know better next time."

Toby tossed him a resigned glance, then dropped his eyes again. "Your eternal good humor is especially insufferable in moments like this."

"Hey, we all deal with stress in our own way." Sam stared into the ethernet, running a hand through his hair in pretended nonchalance - which was belied by his next words. "The man *I* want to get my hands on is that drunk."

Toby didn't move. "Dibs."

"Yeah, whatever his name is," Sam muttered absently, not really listening. "Good thing he's under lock and key is all I can say." His youthful features were growing positively vindictive.

"You'd have to wait in line."

"I doubt the President will be in any shape to meet out personal retribution for a little while at least, but he could always delegate to us and have the pleasure of watching." Sam was sounding more serious by the moment.

"If he does, it's to me." Toby threw him another glance. This one glittered. "I get first dibs to tan our tipsy assassin's hide and mount it on the Oval Office wall."

His colleague brightened a bit. "Hey, talk about a homecoming present."

"Nothing but the best for our hospitalized Chief Executive - "

"Toby?" a new voice broke in.

It might well have been the retribution-planning that had stretched something a little too thin. This time it snapped. *"THERE'S NO FURTHER NEWS!"*

The explosion was jarring. Sam jumped in his seat.

Mandy retreated a step from the threshold, one hand held protectively over her heart. "Right." She took a deep breath. "Well, thanks for telling the whole office."

Toby turned away. He was renowned for concealing his emotions, with a better poker face than the President himself, but regret could clearly be read at this moment. "Sorry." And exhaled. "Like you said, Sam... we all deal with it. One way or another."

"No problem." After an awkward moment, Mandy stepped inside. Content to lean against the open door, ignoring the other empty chair. Despite the late-night tension that permeated the entire building, her pantsuit was still pristine, her hair perfect, and her poise as self-confident as ever... but not even this fiercely independent private political operator could appear totally unaffected. "I suppose you don't want *everyone* to move in with you for the next few hours, but I was just wondering how you guys were doing."

"About as well as can be expected." Sam inclined his head in the direction of their unusually-volatile colleague as evidence. "We were just killing time with theories about the best method of killing a president-killer."

"Huh! You and the rest of the House. And I have the perfect solution. My nails are longer than either of yours." She flexed one hand, her fingernails for a moment chillingly similar to the claws of a tiger.

Sam studied their polished length, then her absolutely humorless expression. She sounded more dangerous than Toby at his best. "Hmm, not bad. I'd like a ringside seat - and I wouldn't be the only one. That is, assuming *you* draw the lucky number. Right now there are quite a few others vying for that honor."

"An honor it would be."

"You'll get no objection from me." And the silence agreed emphatically with him.

Of all White House affiliates, if not all political operatives in DC, Mandy liked inaction the least. To her high-charged, politically-gifted mind, patience and ambition were mutually exclusive. She scrounged for some new topic.

"Say, they're tuned into the networks outside. Want to join the crowd?" Never mind that each member of the senior staff possessed in his or her office no less than three TV sets for catching multiple newsbreaks; there was something to be said for support in numbers.

"You think CBS has more information to offer than I do?" Toby asked with deadly softness, shooting her a hard glare under dark brows.

She accepted the challenge at once, though less belligerently than usual. "No - I think *they* think that any news, even familiar news, is better than no news at all."

"By the time the anchors *get* the news, it'll have been amended six ways to Sunday."

"I thought you wanted us to stop asking you every five minutes."

"I am not in the mood to watch spontaneous interviews with distraught citizens who never voted for him in the first place."

Sam tried to ease the cynicism. "I know what you mean; I'm having enough trouble dealing with my own thoughts right now. The personal pain aside, it's downright dismaying how this affects absolutely everything we do."

Mandy nodded her full agreement. "Then you'll be glad to know that no international rumblings have commenced - yet. Which is not to say that they soon won't. It's just too early. Even political insurrection takes time to come to a boil."

"Something to look forward to."

Then a new idea occurred to him. "Say, have you heard anything about the Family?"

"I know that one of the First Daughters is overseas; no telling when she'll be able to catch a flight home. And the other simply cannot get away just now. Her daughter's too sick."

Sam closed his eyes in empathy. "God, what a choice to make."

"That's another thing," Toby interposed. "During our bloodthirsty debate earlier, we seem to have forgotten someone else. Did you speak to Charlie yet?"

Sam shifted in his seat. "Yeah, I got through not long ago. I'm really glad he's there; Zoey sure needs someone to lean on right now."

"And how is *she* doing?"

Mandy switched into indignant mode. "How would *you* feel if your father was fighting for his life just down the hall and you were told you couldn't be with him?"

"Well, I personally would care less about the security issue or the hospital rules," Toby said, still in profile, hands clasped and voice quiet, yet his opinion set in cold marble.

"My sentiments precisely." These two had waged some rousing arguments in recent memory, on a wide range of topics. They had a lot in common that made such arguments inevitable: both thoroughly enjoyed the taste of combat, defended their logic in the face of all opposition and hated to yield a point. On those infrequent occasions where they actually found themselves in consensus, the rest of the senior staff knew to pay attention.

"I think I can name one person around here who's not interested in us winning the next election," Sam mused, in a weak effort to lighten things at least a bit.

"Oh?" Mandy folded her arms in the way she had when answering the call to battle. "You might be in for quite a surprise. She's inherited a lot of strong qualities from both her parents."

"Great. We can pride ourselves in nurturing the President of the next generation."

"And Charlie?" Toby persisted, more quiet than ever.

Sam rubbed one temple. "He seems to be holding up okay too, all things considered. It's kind of hard to quantify this sort of thing, you know."

Two very somber faces agreed.

"He was riding a few sedans back down the line, so he didn't see the actual impact, but he reached the scene before the ambulance did."

A genuinely painful pause ensued, and from the creases on his boyish face you could tell Sam's imagination was working overtime. "He didn't say much about that - but I can tell you how *I'd* have felt if I'd been on Connecticut an hour and a half ago... just standing there, helpless... staring down at... "

His words petered out. Neither Toby nor Mandy asked him to continue.

*****

The Roosevelt Room's polished wooden conference table gleamed under the low lighting of well-dimmed ceiling pot-lamps, majestic in its undisturbed semi-dark perfection. Historic works of art cast half-defined silhouettes against shadowy walls. Priceless paintings gazed down at this setting of countless national-level decisions in voiceless contemplation. The silence was complete.

One door opened soundlessly. No hinges were allowed to creak in *this* House.

Backlit by the brighter hall illumination, the young man peered into the gloom until he found what he sought.

The female figure had selected a chair in the very back corner. Her body was twisted sideways, elbows propped on a side-table, blond hair a disheveled cascade.

"Nancy?"

Too drugged by her emotions to jump at this sudden voice, she looked up slowly.

He advanced a few cautious steps. "How are you doing?"

She didn't move. "I'm okay, Rick." But her tone sounded less than convincing.

"Well, *I'm* not." He edged closer - until his adapting vision detected the course of tears down her face. And stopped. "Listen, I don't want to intrude. I'd just really rather not be alone right now... and I thought you might feel the same way."

Pause.

"I don't know *what* I feel," she said listlessly, looking away.

Rick accepted this indifference as permission to approach. "Yeah. Me too." He eased into the chair beside her. "We're kind of like - survivors of a disaster. Nobody else can really understand. None of them have gone through what *we* did."

She didn't answer him. He didn't push. It was enough to just sit quietly and find some measure of comfort in comradeship.

Silence lingered between them, until Nancy let out an enormous sigh.

"This excursion was supposed to be a wonderful chance for us. Not important enough to drag out the senior staff. We were trusted to handle it on our own."

Rick studied her. "Come on, you can't blame yourself for anything. We *serve* the President. The Secret Service have to protect him."

"I know, I know! But I just can't get over this feeling that we... we let him down somehow. When it came to the crunch, we were absolutely *useless*." Pause. "And since we couldn't help, they sent us away."

Reality is harsh at times. All Rick could do, faced with that stinging truth, was nod.

"You know," Nancy mused after another lapse, "I absolutely love it when someone asks me what my job is. I can say *I work for the President*, exactly the same way anyone else would mention the corner store. But sometimes - I don't realize myself what an incredible privilege it is. We have daily contact with him. We *know* him. Most people will never even *meet* him! Boy, what they wouldn't give to be in our shoes, even for a day." She brushed at her tears. "We're a part of the highest possible echelon of power. Sometimes we actually *influence* it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to made a real difference in the world."

Her voice wavered. "I never in my life thought I could take that for granted."

Rick empathized perfectly. In the semi-darkness that matched their mood so well, he reached over and rested his hand on her arm. "Until tonight, huh?"

"Until tonight. I'm not taking *anything* for granted right now." Nancy paused to take stock of herself. "I never felt this way about any other boss I've had. In fact, I don't think I was ever this worried about my own parents." She turned to look at her colleague directly. "Why *is* that? What's the draw? Is it the history? The prestige? Or just something about *him*?"

Rick managed a grin. "If I had to guess, I'd say all of the above. He *is* the most powerful man in the world, you know. And he's a terrific guy, too. But he's still human, Nance. He can make mistakes... and he can be hurt."

"Well, I don't know about too many mistakes. And I can't bear to think of him - "

Her shoulders started to shake.

Rick exhaled. "We have to face it: there are some things even the President of the United States can't do."

"Well, he *can't die*," Nancy stated unyieldingly. "We *need* him."

Very gently, Rick put his arm around her.

"Sure... and right now he needs *us*. And we're going to hang in there for him."

*****

Whether the President was present in the Oval Office, expected at any moment or gone from the White House entirely, the reception area Mrs. Landingham presided over almost always seemed to emanate serene efficiency tempered with a subtle vigilance. The Grand Entrance, front atrium and state chambers where kings and emperors were formally received managed to look regal and unhurried on the most hectic of days; the administrative offices, by contrast, hardly lost their energetic hum even in the dead of night. In this most prestigious of waiting rooms, both worlds melded into a unique atmosphere of calm preparedness.

When Carol walked in, the President's secretary jerked her head up so fast she could have suffered whiplash herself. But the only response to her silent, anxious query was a pair of empty hands. She sighed and resigned herself to the status quo.

"I take it no one's heard anything."

"Absolutely *nada*." CJ's assistant put her hands on her hips. "I've never seen this place so tight-strung. *Something* has to break. One way... or the other."

There didn't seem to be anything else to say. Carol just stood there, glancing idly around as she'd almost never had the chance to do before on her standard workdays of racing countless deadlines... and eventually registered on the click of computer keys.

"How can you work at a time like this?"

Mrs. Landingham didn't pause. "Oh, one becomes accustomed to blocking out a variety of distractions around here." She reached for a folder to one side. "Secret Service sweeps, visiting diplomats, political upheavals..."

"I'll bet. That would sure keep *me* in practice." Carol drummed her fingers on a side table. "I never thought I'd say this, but it's a good thing after all that the work still has to go on. At least it provides *some* distraction."

"Are you having much success distracting yourself?" Mrs. Landingham asked with deceptive casualness.

Her visitor didn't hesitate. "No."

"In case this makes you feel better, I'm not having quite as much success as it looks like, either."

Carol's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Really? The illusion's pretty good."

A secret smile. "I get a lot of practice in this as well."

Donna appeared next. Carrying, on a tray, three cups of steaming coffee.

She hesitated in the aperture. "How welcome am I?"

Carol grinned. "When coffee is included, you're welcome anywhere." She reached for a caffeine fix. "So, what brings you around? As if I couldn't guess."

"Uh, chiefly the fact that Josh is tied up and Toby doesn't know any more than anyone else." Donna's effort at being cheerful was strained around the edges.

Mrs. Landingham grimaced as she took a cup. "Much more of this and we'll be bouncing off the ceiling."

"Lately it's the only thing that's kept body and soul together." Carol frowned. "What - no muffins?"

Donna circulated the sugar and cream. "*You* try negotiating through that labyrinth with a loaded tray when everyone's running around as if we'd just declared war on Cuba."

"Never mind," Mrs. Landingham advised with a matronly look. "Have a cookie." She nodded to the large crystal cookie jar that always held court on her desk.

CJ's assistant accepted that invitation, then slid a hip onto the desk corner. There wasn't an abundance of chairs here; normally, if you got this close to the Oval Office, the President would be waiting inside to receive you at once. "Let's just treat this as a much-needed breather in the constant administrative pressures of Government."

The glance that the President's secretary gave her was pure stoicism. "My dear, this is just the calm before the storm."

"Well, I admire *your* calm."

"The President is at his coolest in an emergency. Usually." She paused on that qualifier. "I can hardly be less so."

Her guests read between the lines: a lot went into smoothing his upsets as well.

Donna tossed her hair and picked up the third coffee mug. "I wish he'd give Josh a few lessons in self-control."

This time Mrs. Landingham stopped completely. "No, you *don't*."

Now *that* statement was suggestive. Both visitors raised eyebrows.

"Let me just say that on those rare occasions when his temper slips, it is a thing to behold."

"Really? So, now I know where Josh gets it."

Silence fell. Even the keyboard was left alone while they shared the coffee, each other's company... and the omnipresent suspense.

Donna wandered over to the patio doors that led onto the back lawn, studying the picked-out pattern of Washington's downtown lights on black velvet and the towering Monument like a silver-white arrow aimed at Heaven. And sighed. "The waiting is always the worst."

"I'll second that." Carol got up and started to pace; she couldn't help herself any longer. "I was told from the first that this job would have late nights. Formal functions, important briefings, even national crises. But not - " Her voice cracked a bit.

Donna picked up the thread. "Not the end of the world." She rubbed her arms as though she felt chilled. "You *know* the President is at risk every day from criminals and nutcases... but you don't expect such a simple, stupid accident. Just like anyone else."

"If only he'd worn a seat-belt."

"You want to be the one to tell him to buckle up?"

"Do those limos even *have* belts for the back seats?"

"If they do and he doesn't, would anyone dare ticket him?"

Mrs. Landingham culminated the debate with a sigh of her own. "After today, surely he won't need to be encouraged."

And the undercurrent of her words seemed to ring through the air around them: *Assuming he lives through this one...*

*****


	4. And the World Stood Still 4

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

In the Chief of Staff's office, Leo and Josh were preparing to do what no one else in the West Wing would volunteer for right now: leave the immediate area and delay their catching the first whisper of news. But duty was duty.

The same duty that prevented a man from going to a friend who needed him.

"The Secret Service will contact us the second they hear anything. We're not even leaving the building." Leo did his best, but clearly he did not want to move beyond earshot of his own phone for a single moment, for any reason. He kept in constant motion, shifting papers from desk to briefcase to filing cabinet and back, just so that his hands didn't have time to shake... and his face looked more deeply lined than it might have earlier this evening.

"Yeah, I keep telling myself that, too." Josh leaned against the opposite wall, sleeves rolled up, arms folded, able to do little else except watch. "And meanwhile the word just trickles out, unconfirmed, and in no time it'll be twisted beyond all recognition."

He hesitated, then abandoned that concern as something he could do nothing about anyway. Another factor needed his attention more. "Look, whichever way this goes, we're going to get through it. Together."

Leo deliberately misinterpreted him. He did *not* want to go there. "The nation will survive, Josh. It's just too damned big to hinge entirely upon one man." Which was, from a national perspective, true enough. Over not much more than two centuries, one U.S. President in five has died in office.

His tone grew remote. Withdrawn. "Sure, we've all invested a good chunk of our careers in this administration. But nothing lasts forever, and you have to move on. I've done it."

Not *this* way, though. Not by the death of part of *himself*.

Josh persisted. "That's not what I'm talking about - "

So much for dodging the issue. "Thank you, but I've already been through this on the phone with my wife *and* my daughter. Hell, Jenny has known the Bartlets almost as long as I have, and Mallory's known them all her life." Leo's tone had a real edge to it. "And *you* know that I don't need any further distractions right now. There's too much work that has to get done."

The rifling of pages sounded louder than ever. Anything to fill the void.

"Leo, I think I've got a pretty good idea how you feel."

Both hands descended to the desk surface, and were still. The sudden quiet where neither of them *wanted* quiet was unsettling.

Leo kept his eyes averted and his voice tightly reined. "Josh, you're nowhere near forty yet. How can you imagine what it's like to have a forty-year-old friendship? When you're convinced sometimes that you know that person better than you know yourself?"

Silence.

"I haven't known *you* that long," Josh pointed out, with a softness and a sensitivity that many people who saw mostly his brash wit would not have accredited him. "Or Toby, or CJ, or Sam." He shrugged. "Even a comparatively young friendship can still mean a lot. I wouldn't want to see any of you die. And I sure wouldn't want to see any of you suffer brain damage."

Silence.

"The truth is, I'm not at all sure which possibility scares me more." Leo sounded almost bewildered, lost. It took him several seconds to put his darkest fears into words. "Either way, I lose the man I've always known."

Josh said nothing. What comfort could expressions of sympathy bring here, now? None, for either of them. All he had to offer was himself. A friend.

Somewhere in the stillness, this silent yet palpable support penetrated, and the Chief of Staff recalled that he wasn't the only one suffering here. And, that calculating degrees of suffering between people served no good purpose. His head turned. His eyes were haunted by a sorrow beyond tears.

"We *all* lose him."

Several more seconds ticked by almost audibly. Josh chose this time to move a few steps closer, a testimony to wordless compassion.

His boss looked down again. "Damnit, I should be there. Even if it's only to pace the halls with his family - "

Then Leo sighed, venting a horrible pressure that simply had no outlet. "He's the President of the United States. He's Abbey's husband. He's Zoey's FATHER!" He closed his eyes, and his volume dropped to a near-whisper. "What right do I have to feel so bad?"

Josh waited a beat. "All the right in the world. He's your friend."

"He's also my President, and I have a responsibility to him. But I complied when he said that he didn't need me tonight. Might as well let some of the younger staff have the experience." Leo's words came harder now. "If only I'd done the proper thing and gone along anyway. At least *then* I'd have had a decent enough excuse to be at the hospital with him!"

There was a problem with this scenario, and Josh hesitated to mention it. "If you *had* gone, you probably would've been in the limo with him, too."

Their eyes locked, grasping the full scope of repercussion.

"Better that than not knowing." The thought of enduring such a collision held no power over Leo at this time.

Josh shook his head at that one. "Ugh, I don't know... we really can't do without our Commander-in-Chief *and* our Chief of Staff. *One* of you has to carry on."

Another long pause.

If there was one aspect to said Chief of Staff's character that stood out above the rest, it was his unswerving devotion to duty. His gaze lowered, dispirited, resigned. "Yeah."

Enough of this pessimism. Josh shifted into encouragement. "Leo, he's going to be okay. We all have to believe that. The President has surprised us before. And I expect people are praying for him all over the country by now."

After yet another long, long moment, Leo nodded.

"I don't know if the collective will of the people can have any physical effect... but I do know that he'd be very grateful to hear that."

And slowly he straightened again, as though resuming a burden that might have become marginally less oppressive.

His subordinate took that as a good sign. And pressed on with the business that must be faced. "In the meantime we have some serious planning to do. No telling how long he may be incapacitated. The other thing I'm worried about is the *Vice*-President."

Leo seized upon the change of topic gladly. "Leave Hoynes to me. I have some history there as well to draw on if needed." He started shuffling papers again. Regulating anxiety to the back burner. There was no other way to function.

"If the President can think straight at all, he'll want to be back on the job at once, one way or another. And Hoynes sure won't like *that*." Reduced to just standing around for this interlude, Josh just stood. And fidgeted. "How unconstitutional do you think this can get?"

His boss glanced up. "Are you proposing we lock the President in his room until he gets a clean bill of health?"

Josh smiled his relief at this return of humor, however slight. "You'll never convince him it's for his own good."

Leo grimaced at the thought. "Tell me something I don't know."

Time to get to the point. The Deputy Chief of Staff exhaled, like a pot on the boil. "Leo, there's no love lost between the President and Hoynes. You know that. I know that. Everyone who works here knows that."

"Josh - "

"I'm just saying, Hoynes knows how close you are to the President. And he must figure that the senior staff is about as loyal. Naturally he'd prefer to work with his own people rather than us. What if he tries to clean house?"

"Then hand him a mop and pail!" In truth, Leo valued the Vice-President's worth rather more than that, but his emotions were wearing thin tonight.

"I'm not talking about just the White House." Josh paused for impact. He was a highly regarded strategist throughout the political arena; his theories merited consideration. "I'm also thinking about the House of Representatives."

Leo stopped his file-stacking again, this time in surprise. "He can't do *that*, even if he's President himself."

"But what about the chance of a long-term convalescence? We don't know - even assuming the President does make a full recovery, he might be bedridden for months! Could Hoynes plead the nation's best interests and demand a more compatible working environment around here?" Josh waved his arms with nervous energy. "Will he start drumming up some personal support in Congress?"

The Chief of Staff frowned ominously. "Not if he values his career in politics, heir apparent to the Presidency notwithstanding." And he sounded very sure of that.

Josh stuffed both hands in his pants pockets, as though drawing an irrevocable line in the sand. "I know the House of Reps is not our business." And he paused again. Deliberately.

"But if he tries it here - *we the people*... walk."

For a moment Leo just stared at him.

"What, you've got a petition circulating or something?"

Josh looked far too confident for a man bluffing with the uppermost strata of American social and political structure. "I don't need one."

Leo did not reply. But then, neither did he issue a direct challenge to that declaration of independence. Perhaps it didn't come as so much of a surprise after all.

A soft knock was followed by Margaret's timid entrance. "Leo?" she practically whispered.

They turned to her in unison.

"Phone." Her voice almost broke. "The hospital."

The two men traded a fateful look. This was it: the message they all so anticipated - and dreaded.

Having discharged her primary function, Margaret did not leave as a secretary should. And her boss did not dismiss her. She needed to know, too.

Slowly, Leo reached over to pick up... and hesitated for one more heartbeat, one more deep breath. Whatever information waited on that line, events had already occurred and were quite irreversible. Now that it had come at last, he was afraid to find out. Terrified to learn that his best friend - that the U.S. President - *no longer existed*.

But he had to know. Not only for himself, but for everyone else.

For the whole nation. Indeed, for the world.

All three braced themselves as, finally, portentously, he lifted the receiver.

"McGarry."

Margaret gripped Josh's arm. He didn't move, every muscle tense.

"I *know* who you are, Doctor." How Leo kept his voice from trembling was a minor miracle. "Please - just cut to the chase."

Silence for one second. Two. Three.

Then, inch by inch, Leo's face sagged and his shoulders slumped. With agonizing slowness, he sank back into his chair as though completely drained of strength.

Josh and Margaret did not relax at all. Rather, their nerves tightened even more unbearably. This graphic reaction could mean news either wonderful or *devastating*.

Several rapid heartbeats slammed painfully against the ribcages of the two people unable to hear both sides of this critical conversation, before Leo managed a very quiet "Agreed."

With *WHAT?*

A dozen more lifetimes seemed to pass; then, tonelessly, "Thank you." And with a hand that shook just a bit, he hung up.

And sat there, features slack, eyes on a distant horizon.

It took him another three endless seconds to remember that he wasn't alone in his office, and to look around. Expression unchanging.

*WHICH IS IT?* two teeth-clenched faces shrieked at him.

"He's going to make it."

Margaret almost fainted on the spot. Gasping for air - he had no memory of holding his breath in the anguish of the moment - Josh reacted in time to steady her as she staggered.

Leo was too overwhelmed to even smile. Feeling positively light-headed.

"Thank God on high, he's going to *live*."

His secretary made an inarticulate sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and threw her arms around Josh's neck, White House decorum be damned. He didn't mind; in fact, he hugged her back. And he *did* laugh.

Leo kindly waited until they were calm enough to hear more.

"He's already been upgraded from critical to serious. His breathing is stronger, his heart-rate is regular, and his blood pressure has been restored. And they seem pretty sure that the concussion won't cause any mental complications. He'll be coming home soon, with all the equipment and attendants needed. Maybe as early as Sunday or Monday, depending on how things go. The healing time might as well be spent here; it'll be easier on him, on his family, on the hospital staff, and on the Secret Service."

"I *can* think of a few others to add to that list," Josh said in an attempt at his usual smart-aleck attitude. Like a declaration that things were finally returning to normal.

Margaret was dabbing at her eyes. By now all three wore grins so broad it hurt. Another second or two ticked past as they just savored this indescribable moment of such tremendous news... and the heady sensation of being not only the sole individuals in the White House but among those very few in the entire anxiously-waiting world who possessed it. However, even in this ecstasy it was cruel to delay the proclamation. Leo sat up.

"Okay, Margaret, spread the good word." Now that was a joyous command. "Just make sure you tell Toby *first*, or else he'll never forgive us. Oh, and inform CJ that I'll brief her for the next release as soon as we get back."

His secretary flashed an even more radiant smile and left the office at a run. Anyone outside who even glimpsed her face would guess the basic headline at once. This particular broadcast should beat any other grapevine record hands down.

Leo ran a handkerchief slowly across his forehead. "Whew. So much for the most frightening ordeal of *my* life."

"Here, here." Josh sighed, equally wrung out. "You feeling better now?" he couldn't resist asking.

After their previous heart-crushing conversation on this topic, a touch of comedy felt marvelous. "Better than a long-shot majority on the last ballot."

"Wow, that *is* good." Josh grinned anew. "Well, this wraps up today's little drama. All that's left is the denouement." He glanced towards the door. "I *really* hate to leave now. This place is going to see quite a celebration. Be a shame to miss it."

"I know what you mean, but you and I are a little indispensable right now." With the elimination of grief came a new purpose. Leo rose and stepped around his desk, once again fully focused on the task ahead. He looked at the time. "We can't put the Vice-President *and* the Cabinet off just to party, even for this."

"Do we have to tell Hoynes just how temporary his new role will be?"

"Oh, wouldn't it be great if he found out from someone else."

Josh retrieved his blazer from a nearby chair. "Yeah - but a longer period of ignorance might give him enough rope to hang himself."

"For pity's sake, Josh, the man is on *our* side!"

"*Is* he?"

For one long moment, the Chief of Staff had no honest reply. Then,

"He'd *better* be."

*****


	5. And the World Stood Still 5

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

The utter silence could almost be heard as a genuine sound in itself. Nancy and Rick sat side by side in their large, historic, half-lit chamber of isolation, as motionless as the statues around them that shared this vigil. Speaking no empty words, sharing no worried glances... just leaning into each other's solid presence, clinging to that small comfort against the demons of horror that wrapped them round.

When Rick finally moved, he did so rather stiffly from his long stillness.

"Nancy?" he whispered, as though afraid that the slightest unnecessary noise might tip the precarious scales of presidential survival.

She blinked. Rising from the coils of imagination's fanciful mists, back to reality's bitter substance. Looked at him.

"Something just occurred to me: no one else knows we're here. Think I'll stick my head outside... see if there's any news."

She did not reply verbally, but her eyes said it all: that there were only two possible kinds of news. And the odds were not in their favor.

"You'll be okay for a sec?"

Pause. "Sure." That one word barely carried the eighteen inches between them.

"I'll be right back," he promised. "Regardless."

These doors were virtually soundproof, considering the high levels of discussion that took place regularly within. No hint of external affairs had penetrated. Nancy silently watched Rick cross the Roosevelt Room, one slow step at a time, trying to prepare himself for what could all too easily be awaiting them just beyond...

The door swung open without a squeak. The silence rushed out.

And the cacophony of raised voices rushed in.

It took them both a couple of very painful seconds to realize that these were not cries of lamentation as they so feared - but of joy, such as they had not dared to hope.

Rick whirled. Nancy leaped up. Holding themselves still for one more long breath, just to be absolutely sure that their hearts were not deceiving them.

And then they ran from the room together.

*****

"Toby!"

He glanced up from his desk. Not with eagerness, as might be expected in this scenario - but with apparent disinterest.

Ginger was too overjoyed to notice. "He's going to be okay!"

No question of whom she meant. Around here, "he" referred to no one else. Especially now.

"I heard." Toby resumed writing.

"What a relief! Oh, I've never been so worried!"

"I know."

"And he's coming home already! It can't be *that* serious!"

"It can't."

Something in this lack of enthusiasm finally penetrated. Ginger actually *looked* at him.

"Are you all right?"

He didn't meet her eye. "Oh, sure. Considering that the earlier news almost caused a heart attack or two, I'm just fine. What a relief to get back to work, when people aren't interrupting left and right to ask me about the latest update." His pen moved somewhat violently across the page. "Instead they're interrupting left and right to *tell* me about it."

Ginger held still for several seconds, turning this curious speech over in her mind.

"I - just wanted to make sure you knew." She sounded rather hurt at such a cool reception to the best news any of them could ask for. "Everyone else is practically dancing in the aisles." Which implied that anyone who cared for the President would do no less. Toby's devotion to their Chief Executive was never in doubt, so why didn't he want to join in? "You looked so depressed, I was afraid no one had mentioned it to you yet."

Slowly, Toby raised his head and propped it up with one hand. His face was a mask.

"Consider this a personality quirk. Some people draw closer together in a crisis. They feel better talking about it. Helps them deal with the stress. In the same way, it's natural to vent relief in celebration." His pause was more expressive than any public proclamation of soul-deep concern. "I've just never been that type."

She got the message. "Uh - right. Um... sorry to bother you."

He sighed. "I suppose I should show a little appreciation."

"No, that's okay. We'll try to leave you alone." Ginger backed away, as though unnerved by the incredulous revelation that Toby Ziegler actually had personal feelings. His reputation for gruff reserve in the worst tempest was firmly grounded around here.

Well, if you *really* wanted to tap the depths of the White House Communications Director, it looked like all you had to do was threaten the President of the United States.

Just before Ginger could get out of earshot he called out, "Hey, do you know where Sam is? I need him here."

"I - think he went out to pick up some supper."

Toby exhaled and returned to his paperwork. "One-track mind, that guy."

*****

Sam staggered into the bullpen area with both arms loaded. "Vegetarian chow call!"

People swirled around him at once, laying claim to their individual orders, stripping his hands clean in moments.

"Hey, will someone at least save me a croissant - oh, never mind." Not even pausing to remove his trench coat, he fell into the nearest vacant chair.

"Aren't you hungry, Sam?" Cathy asked, digging into her own meal.

"Nah, I'm too tired to be hungry." His head fell back in exhaustion, leaving him to stare at the ceiling. "I knew I should've gone home earlier. I offer to pick up supper *once*, and now it's my job for life. There were so many orders, I didn't have the chance to get anything for myself. Sandwiches, subs, salads... Doesn't anyone around here want to share a pizza or something equally *un*nutritious?"

She laughed none too sympathetically. "It's a small price to pay. You wouldn't miss this for the world and you know it."

Coming up from behind, Mandy shook her head in feigned wonder. "Don't you find anything wrong with this picture? First, at the end of a long and hard day, no one wants to leave in case they miss a tragic bulletin; and now, at the start of *another* long and hard day, no one wants to leave in case they miss a party."

Cathy smiled at her. "Obviously you don't know how good a party can get around here."

"I've heard my share of rumors."

"Which explains why you're still here too, right?" Sam suggested, too worn out to guard his tongue more closely.

Mandy rounded on him sharply. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Seaborn?"

He closed his eyes, as if that would make the issue go away. "I *definitely* should have gone home."

"That's becoming more apparent by the minute."

CJ arrived just in time to throw water on the flash point. "But it's a *doubly* good thing you didn't, Sam."

He looked at her, eyes narrowing. "I'm not so exhausted that I've forgotten to be wary of sudden surprises around here."

"Those are the best kind. The Press Corps will be back within half an hour, which means you have been granted the singular privilege of helping me prepare one of the most joyous releases I'll *ever* give. Toby's looking for you even as we speak."

"Just what the sandman ordered." With an effort, Sam heaved himself up. "Isn't it great that the crisis is over. We speechwriters had begun to feel decidedly useless."

"Okay; the next time you feel overworked, we'll arrange another national emergency that doesn't require your services." CJ was all grins, and her sarcasm had resumed its normal lighthearted note. Presidential good news can do that.

"Fine. Anyone placing bets that some dictator will try to get away with a bit of subterfuge while the U.S. scrambles its hierarchy?" Sam's weariness was affecting his repertoire.

"That's assuming the U.S. hierarchy doesn't do the job itself," Josh announced darkly as he clomped past, yanking off his blazer in passage.

Sam, CJ and Mandy instantly gave him their full attention. Cathy understood to make herself scarce.

"What happened?" Sam asked first, leading the way after him, weariness a thing of the past. "Clearly your meeting with Hoynes wasn't a total delight - I'd have been amazed if it was - but a little more detail *would* be welcome."

Josh strode into his own office, where he flung his jacket at the coat rack with no real interest in actually hanging it there. And missed.

The Deputy Chief of Staff whirled to face his colleagues with a worried frown. "Get ready for some fireworks to rival the Fourth of July. The Cabinet voted Hoynes in; they could hardly do otherwise. And the man's blowing all his jets. Leo read him his rights, but I don't know how long that'll keep his ambitions under wraps - he sees this as his God-given opportunity to take full control." Josh exhaled. "All I can say is, if the President *had* to get involved in a Smash-up Derby, at least it was on Friday. We have one weekend of grace, and we're going to need every minute of it. The fun and games start Monday morning."

Everyone traded concerned glances. President Bartlet's administration had been refined into a surprisingly efficient political machine, stacked with people who worked together and trusted each other to say what they honestly believed. People who tried to focus on doing what was right, not just what was popular or expedient or even pressured by the powerful and the outspoken. People not afraid to tell their Commander-in-Chief when he was wrong.

Vice-President Hoynes, however, was not on the Bartlet bandwagon... and he seemed altogether too eager to tackle the job of President *his* way.

"He's had his eye on that leather chair from the word go," CJ admitted. Angrily.

"We're sitting on a powder keg," Mandy summarized. Succinctly.

Josh nodded. Grimly. "And only one person in the world can diffuse it."

*****


	6. And the World Stood Still 6

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

Saturday.

The White House did not share the public sector's tradition of a more casual dress code on Fridays - not with diplomats, generals and presidents running around at any given moment. Besides, considering the number of times these employees worked weekends, a dress-down weekday would be somewhat redundant.

*This* weekend saw a full House indeed - at least as far as the senior staff was concerned.

"Yes, Congressman." Josh nodded into the phone receiver, not that the other party would see it anyway, but human habit dies hard. He was slouched in his chair, feet up on his desk. "I really appreciate it, sir. All right, I'll see you Monday."

He paused, rubbing his already-tousled hair as the other voice rambled on for a bit. "Well, to be honest, the only thing we know for sure is that there's been no change for the worse." Pause. "Sure, I'll pass on your good wishes the first chance I get. Yes, sir, thank you."

He hung up, looked around... and found Toby standing silently on his office threshold, hands in pockets, motionless and expressionless as ever.

"You like watching me work, don't you?" Josh grinned.

Toby did not. "Well, it's such a rare phenomenon."

The Deputy Chief of Staff let that one go. His interest diverted to their contrasting attire: Toby's dress shirt, dress pants and sports jacket to Josh's jeans, tank top and unbuttoned jersey.

"Don't you ever relax?" He waggled his propped-up sneakers in emphasis.

Toby was even less effusive today than his usual guarded self. "What?"

"Forget it." At least the Communications Director had foregone his tie; that was some progress.

"Have you spoken to Mercerie yet?"

"About ten minutes ago. He and Lockheed are on for Thursday." Josh lowered his feet and shuffled through a copious pile of notes. "The Bill 612 faction comes in Tuesday, Stratherney and Yorker have agreed to postpone until Friday, and Brock still has to let me know about tomorrow." He rubbed one ear. "My ear is ready to fall off from all this re-scheduling."

"Think of it instead as evidence of a productive time."

Josh leaned both elbows tiredly on his desk, looking as though he wanted to put his head right down. "Productivity is relative at this point. We're just trying to do as much as possible before Hoynes can screw it all up."

"We can always bill *him* for the overtime," Toby deadpanned.

"I wish." Josh paused. "You know, the most surprising thing about this is that everyone I've talked to sounds genuinely concerned about the President's condition."

"Naturally; it's a matter of survival. They know that if they *don't* show some sympathy, I'll be knocking on their doors." And there was no sarcasm behind those words at all.

Josh couldn't prevent another smile, if only a brief one. "That must be it. When you start your rounds, count me in."

"I'll *consider* it. What's your rate of successful contact?"

"Not bad, overall. Of course it helps when you know their home phone numbers."

Toby shifted in place for the first time. "I personally am convinced that the ELO is ignoring my calls. No federal lobby can be *that* dead, even on a Saturday."

Josh sat up straighter in blatant disbelief. "What - they don't want to talk to a sunny guy like you?"

"My reputation precedes me."

"Or else your number. Maybe they have Call Display."

"In that case - "

"Hey, don't look at me. *I'm* not making the call for you. Give me communists over lobbyists any day."

"Fine." Toby could not have appeared less interested in the political consequences. "Then the Governor can make his merry way out here from Iowa to discover that he's been stood up by the White House."

"Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

Leo joined them at that moment. "Oh, Toby; good. You need to hear this, too."

Josh took one look at his boss's proper suit and tie, and just shook his head. But then, the Chief of Staff always had to set an example.

Toby noticed his reaction, and raised one eyebrow in vivid commentary.

Leo was blissfully unaware of this silent exchange. "Guys, I'll warn you now: don't schedule anything special for Monday."

Josh blinked. "Too late. I just did."

"Then you'd better *un*schedule it. I don't care *what* it is." Leo was quite serious.

"Oh, *great*." Josh rocked backwards so far that his chair creaked alarmingly. "As if we're not famous enough already for bumping meetings left and right."

"Trust me: on Monday tensions will be far too high to worry about anything else. I want you thinking about your work when you meet these guys, not about Hoynes." And on that note Leo departed, clearly with a lot else occupying his mind.

Toby did *not* leave. Josh studied him, wondering why.

"Well?"

"What?" Exactly like before.

"I could swear we've had this conversation already," Josh muttered. "Don't you now have calls to remake as well?"

The Communications Director just stood there and returned his look. "No."

Pause. "Let me guess: you already knew to leave Monday free."

Somehow Toby achieved the effect of a smug smile without the slightest twitch to his face. "Of course. Common sense."

Wearily, Josh reached again for his phone.

*****

Sam had his phone receiver wedged under his jaw as he attempted to discuss one topic and enter something totally unrelated into his laptop at the same time. One learned early to divide one's attention in this workplace.

"Senator, I'm not trying to finagle anything. I'm being perfectly frank: the more you and I can get done over the phone right now, the better off both of us will be next week."

Pause. Computer keys clicked audibly in the quiet.

"Let me put it this way: would you have pushed for a financial conference here a year and a half ago when this administration was first getting its feet wet?" Pause. "Right. And the Vice-President will need his own getting-acquainted time."

Pause. He squinted at the laptop's screen, shifting mental gears in mid-stride.

"Okay, then. I'll call you back in a couple of hours." Pause. "Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to tell the President that you're pulling for him. We all are." Another pause, *not* for the same reason as the previous one. "Bye."

Abandoning both phone and keyboard, Sam rose, stretched, and poked his head outside his office. "Cathy?"

Instead of his assistant, Donna stepped into view. "She was drafted for a courier run. Luck of the draw when bodies are few. What do you need, Sam?"

He stared at her. She looked ready for a cruise, shorts and sleeveless print jersey and sandals together.

"So, when do you sail?"

She dimpled. "Well, I won't get to the Bahamas this year, but I can still dream. They always turn the air conditioning down on the weekend; it does a fair imitation of a balmy climate." She surveyed his black jeans, white T-shirt and cowboy boots. "So, where did you park your Harley?"

Sam rallied quickly. "In the First Lady's spot, of course. Say, isn't this your second weekend in a row or something?"

"Third - but who's counting?" Donna sounded resigned.

"I'd think Josh would've given you this one off on principle, especially when we consider what's coming."

Her smile returned. "I don't want him to think he can do without me for any length of time."

"Ah." Made perfect sense. "Listen, I - "

"Sam." Leo rounded a nearby corner. "Excuse me, Donna." She drew back discretely. "Sam, you're doing that subsidy meeting with Backwater, right?"

"I'm working on it. The senator's not a very happy camper right now. He hates being put off, for *any* reason."

"Stay on him." Leo handed over a file. "Wall Street's entered a tailspin. It should level out somewhat by day's end, but..."

"But it's not likely to climb again until the nation knows for sure that the President is still in one piece," Sam concluded gravely, opening the folder.

Leo's nod was every bit as grave. "That's not the primary reason why *I* want to see him in one piece again, but it is an added factor. The Chairman of the Fed just about had a stroke when he saw the opening numbers this morning."

"Which will echo through all the other banks both here and around the world." Sam whistled over the figures. "Talk about a dominoes effect."

He stopped to gaze into the distance. "You know, I've never really wanted to be President myself, and now I know why. Bad enough having to recover from a car crash without the whole planet going into hysterics as a result."

Leo grunted a depressed endorsement. "I hear you."

Sam paused again, this time to study his boss more closely.

"Leo, there is absolutely no doubt that he's going to be fine."

The Chief of Staff studied him somberly in return. "I wish I had your optimism."

"It's based on pure fact," Sam insisted with a straight face. "He knows all of us will never forgive him if he doesn't."

That earned the rueful grin he was after.

"You got *that* right." Leo nodded his gratitude, then reverted to business before he became any more demonstrative. "In the meantime, the last thing we need right now is panic on the Hill. Try to keep Backwater on an even keel, okay?"

"Oh, is that all? You should give me something difficult."

"Believe me, you have my sympathy," Leo muttered as he left.

Donna edged closer. Sam had apparently forgotten about her, nose to the financial report.

"Sam? Did you want something earlier?"

He glanced at her. And hesitated. "Well... I don't want to tie you up."

"Don't worry about it. Josh is closeted with his phone." She smirked. "And anything Cathy can do..."

Sam returned the expression. "Okay, you asked for it. I was just thinking how nice it would be for someone to bring *me* lunch for a change." And tried to look innocent as her face fell.

*****

The entire surface of the good-sized conference table was covered with newspapers, as though the White House had entered into a massive recycling campaign.

Each paper bore a different name: some from American cities, some international.

Each paper bore the same date: today.

Each paper bore a headline in glaring black, all variations of the same subject.

Mandy sat alone, flanked by these untidy piles. Her casual attire looked to be the height of current fashion, as though she was a model moonlighting at the printer's shop. She focused intently on the heartbeat of the world, alternating between hard copy before her and electronic format on her laptop. The White House could hardly be on *every* paper's mailing list - there were way too many in the States alone. Fortunately the Internet helped make up the difference, as well as providing translations where needed.

At some point to the day Leo strode in. "Mandy?"

"Do you believe this?" she demanded at once, without waiting to hear what he wanted, and rotated the laptop his way. The banner on its screen declared, *"BARTLET KILLED IN CAR CRASH"*.

He went very still, almost hypnotized by that message. His voice dropped to a whisper. "And it could so easily have been true."

After a moment Mandy realized this and deliberately swiveled her laptop around again, hiding the words and breaking the spell. Leo shuddered, throwing off the effect.

"And I doubt that's the only one, too." He surveyed the litter on all sides.

She resumed her scrolling. "Wouldn't surprise me, either. There's hardly a breath of any other news on the airwaves in *any* language. And some of the inaccuracies are laughable, ranging from heart failure to paraplegia. Talk about jumping to conclusions! Does it never occur to them to confirm the facts before publishing? Oh, and you don't want to know how many people are convinced this was an assassination attempt, not an accident at all."

"Anything to improve the situation." Leo pocketed both hands with an air of bracing for impact. "A few of our *non*-allies oversees seem inordinately excited right now."

"I noticed that too." Mandy cast a very serious eye his way. "They're not going to believe anything less than seeing the President for themselves, in living color. The more we insist he's alive, the more they'll doubt it."

"At this very moment, catering to diplomatic paranoia is low on my list of interests. The President should convalesce a *bit* before we drive him in front of the cameras." Leo checked his watch. "Still, I'd like you to attend the NSC meeting at three; a PR viewpoint could be valuable. Perception is four-fifths the battle right now."

That invitation came as a clear surprise. Independent political operators did not normally take part in security issues. Clearly Leo wanted all the help he could get on diffusing what had become a multinational time-bomb. "Right, I'll be there."

"Good." Leo paused. "Hoynes will meet with the Joint Chiefs early next week. Surely that'll be enough to hold the world together."

Mandy's lips pursed. "Here's hoping the world knows Hoynes as well as we do. If so, we won't have a thing to worry about. Compared to the President, he's positively trigger-happy."

"In more ways than one." And something echoed ominously in that brief phrase.

Leo was almost out the door when she looked up once more. "Say, where's our favorite limo-wrecker been all this time?"

"Hopefully on bread and water," the Chief of Staff growled as he strode into the hall. No further words were needed to express his simmering opinion on *that* topic.

"Here, here." And Mandy went back to work.

*****

When CJ walked into reception outside the Oval Office, she caught the tail end of Mrs. Landingham's phone conversation.

"Thank you, Madam Ambassador. I'll see that the President gets your message at the earliest opportunity. I know he will appreciate it."

The Press Secretary waited until the call was over and the note-taking complete before she approached. "Happy Saturday, Mrs. Landingham. For some reason I'm not at all surprised to find you here."

Not only here, but looking as fresh and proper as every other day, bar none. Anything else would have seemed positively unnatural.

"I'll take that as a compliment." Mrs. Landingham paused to study the dark, form-fitting outfit that emphasized CJ's height and contrasted well against her auburn hair. "You know, you really are too slim for your own good."

No one else around here would dare a comment like that. But CJ appreciated the thought. True, her narrow build was somewhat less evident under a suit. "I was overweight as a child; this is by far the better alternative. Now I burn calories through sheer nervous energy." She glanced at the neat stack of messages, a stack almost two inches thick. "Offhand, I'd say you're no less busy than the rest of us."

"Expressions of concern are pouring in from around the globe."

For a moment CJ just stared. "Wow. That's really kind of them. Imagine having kings and queens worried about your health." She found the idea slightly mind-boggling.

"The President is a citizen of the world theater." And no doubt Mrs. Landingham had ferried messages from many of those fellow "world citizens" before this; her own career in the White House was far longer than any presidential term.

"Funny how I can forget that." CJ shook her head in bemusement. "Oh, have you seen Leo recently?"

"Not in the last few minutes. He seems to be... *on the move* today."

"So I gathered. Trying to wrap up as many loose ends as possible in the short span of *normal* time we have, no doubt - "

Leo walked in just then. "CJ, there you are."

She grinned. "Well, speak of the devil and he pops right up."

"I doubt he's ever had a more hectic day than I am right now," Leo countered. He did look a bit harried, and more than a bit tired.

"Playing 'Beat the Clock', are we?"

"Someone *else* can be the contestant next time. There just aren't enough hours in the day. Have you seen the headlines?"

"*Oh*, yeah." The Press Secretary shook her head. "Don't worry, I'll straighten them out this afternoon."

"And fast - before someone starts predicting the Apocalypse or the President's resurrection." The Chief of Staff exhaled wearily. "What's the latest?"

"Walter Reed is under siege. There must be a reporter from every paper and station in the country, not to mention every foreign correspondent around." CJ raised her hands in wonder. "I wouldn't have thought that many hotel rooms existed in all of DC."

Leo massaged an aching temple. "We really shouldn't have expected otherwise. We're bringing the President home the moment he's well enough to move. At least here a sufficient level of security is already in place."

"Good! Then *we* can mob him."

"I'll second that." He looked down. "No medical report can equal the evidence of your own eyes."

Silence fell. Every step through these vibrating halls and every measure taken to smooth out the business of the nation only served to remind them - Leo most of all - that their leader wasn't here... and *why*.

Gently, CJ touched his arm in whole-hearted agreement. He glanced at her, clearly welcoming the support.

"Mr. McGarry?" Mrs. Landingham spoke up quietly after another moment.

Both turned. She extended the stack of messages.

"The latest installment?" Leo accepted them with a nod and a sigh. "At least *something* can still put the fine art of political back-stabbing on hold. Thanks, Mrs. Landingham. CJ, I'll get back to you." And without further adieu he headed for his office.

CJ watched him go. "For some of us, this day can't end soon enough," she mused. And glanced around again, to meet the presidential secretary's knowing eye.

*****


	7. And the World Stood Still 7

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

Sunday, 11:30 A.M.

When the ambulance pulled up at the White House front gate, escorted fore and aft exactly as the President's limousine had been, reporters and public flocked to the fence line outside in droves, while staff members surged to the windows inside.

"Toby, come *on!*" Bonnie called in passing. "He's here! You don't want to miss this!"

About to enter his office, the Communications Director rotated in exasperation. "Oh, I don't, huh? Of course, I forgot I don't have any say in what I do and do *not* want to miss." More employees joined the general tide past him. "So you won't believe the hospital staff, the White House Chief of Staff *or* the United States Secret Service that he's alive until you see for yourself? Try to have a little faith, people!"

Sam paused on his own way past. "You're kidding, right? Faith in government?"

Toby raised his eyes to implore strength from heaven. "Great. Now you've got *me* worried." And he tagged along, though with rather low enthusiasm - or so it seemed.

The center of the main reception hall had, of course, been cleared. On both sides, however, it swarmed dark with people several bodies deep. The parallel to the spectators outside the Dupont was almost exact... save for the fact that here there were no police barriers. No one intended to press *too* close. They all knew better.

"When was the last time this forum was so crowded?" Mandy wondered.

Josh craned his neck. "Probably when Marilyn came to perform for Kennedy."

"From the way the crowds are building outside, you'd think both of them are expected to be here as well."

"I thought they chose Sunday because it's the quietest day of the week and the Secret Service wanted the least amount of fuss," Donna put in.

"Since when has a White House prediction been accurate?" her boss riposted.

Mandy smirked at the pair of them. "You don't seriously think everyone showed up just to *work* today, do you?"

"I don't know about you, but I gave up watching the ball game for this," Josh informed her, as though he'd been dragged here against his will.

Donna cast a critical eye over his rumpled sweatshirt, beside her sharp-cut dress. "Well, after such a noble sacrifice on *your* part, I'm sure you won't be impressed by the fact that I had to leave my church service early to get here in time."

"I admire your priorities, and I'll make sure the President knows as well," Josh promised with a grin, then winced as her fist made contact with his arm.

Elsewhere in the crowd, CJ peered over other heads from her superior height. "This is like Union Station."

"Hey, we could pull rank for front-row spots," Sam suggested.

"Give the man some time alone at home, will you?" Toby muttered. "*Then* we'll rush him."

"Our President is a workaholic." As if any of the senior staff actually needed the reminder. "He's going to want a status report at *some* point. You know: *How stands the Union?*"

"He's supposed to *give* the State of the Union, Sam; not *receive* it."

"In this case he'd probably make an exception."

CJ intervened between them. "Guys, if we're going to work him to death, at least let's wait until a bit closer to the end of his term, okay?"

Toby shrugged, as though it all were a matter of no importance. "If we can't keep the country functioning without the direct help of its Commander-in-Chief for one more day, then our chances of overthrowing this government are better than I ever dreamed."

Right then, the tall doors of the Grand Entrance started to open. At once every voice stilled and every face turned.

Leo appeared first. As business-like in appearance as ever - in large part because he had the honor of welcoming the President home. Now leading the procession inside, he paused to survey the eager gathering. And cleared his throat, loudly and pointedly.

Of one accord, every person straightened to attention. The last whisper of movement faded, and the quiet in that huge and crowded atrium was electrifying.

As a procession it shamed anything short of full state honors. First, the black-suited Secret Service agents, still on guard even here. Then the hospital technicians, carrying or propelling a substantial and distressing assortment of medical equipment. Then the doctor and his immediate staff, some of them casting responsible glances over their shoulders as they walked along, others darting fascinated glances at their surroundings.

Their charge occupied a standard hospital gurney, propelled with care by orderlies from front and rear. His upper torso had been elevated to something like forty-five degrees, suggesting less critical health than a fully supine position. Even so, he was blanketed, and strapped down, and a thick white bandage encircled his forehead as though literally holding the skull together.

His features were quite recognizable... despite the bruises, the abrasions, and the rubber tubes running from his nose and mouth to a portable oxygen tank.

On one side walked the President's wife. On the other side walked the President's youngest daughter. Behind walked the President's personal aide. Bringing up the tail was the second installment of security.

Without a word or a smile, they paraded between eerily still walls to right and left. The waves of relief and of concern were not, after all, for them.

Despite everything - gentle movement, squeak of wheels, soft footfalls, tangible emotion in the air - the President's eyes remained closed.

Not one among the spectators spoke. Not a sound broke the peculiar quiet. Not a body shuffled for position; only their heads and eyes moved in respective silence. To a person they were content just to watch him return. To know that he was in good hands.

To know that he was alive.

*****

Leo called the senior staff together early that evening, for a long-awaited announcement.

"I've got the invitation."

"He's awake!" Mandy exclaimed first.

"Yes. It's looking like the doctors may have underestimated the effect that the White House has on the President's recuperative abilities."

"I'm sure they feel bad about being so off the mark." CJ was usually the first among them to disguise stress with sarcasm.

"Offhand, I'd say they're hoping for more of the same," Sam put in. Clearly *he* was.

"How are *you* doing, Leo?" Josh asked, quietly.

All eyes focused even more closely on their Chief of Staff.

Leo seemed caught between new delight and old apprehension. The next few minutes would answer the final, all-pervading question about their leader's mental well-being.

"Ask me when I get back. I'm off to the Residence now." He hesitated. "You can wait around if you want, since I doubt this'll be a lengthy visit."

"Well, we've lasted this long..." Sam mused, as though each of them hadn't delayed their departure all afternoon for that very reason.

"Fine." Leo patted the thick file folder in his hands. "And, assuming the President's up to it, I'll relay your personal reports. But we probably won't get around to discussing Hoynes. I don't want to exhaust him more than I must."

Toby frowned. "You may not want to even *mention* his replacement. He has to be on some kind of painkiller."

No one else commented aloud, but several knowing looks circulated the room. Most of them knew firsthand the disorientation that too much prescribed pain relief could cause in their Chief Executive. The President himself had used the term "goofy", and it was accurate.

Leo rolled his eyes at the memory.

"Medication notwithstanding, Leo, I'm sure you'll be able to tell." CJ sounded like she *wanted* to be very sure of that. "You'll know if he's still... himself."

He nodded uneasily, hoping the very same thing. All the reassurances of the President's improving physical condition had been overshadowed by that lurking terror of permanent mental disability. Not until Leo knew for *sure* that his old friend's abused brain could still function at its previous brilliant and witty speed would he be able to truly relax and leave his part of this nightmare behind.

"If his sense of humor's intact, that'll be a good sign. And I can quiz him on some shared memories. But the math test will be beyond my..."

His words drifted to a troubled stop. Jed Bartlet held a Nobel Prize in Economics. Would he ever rise to that level again? Or would this gifted mind be horribly crippled, this sparkling personality forever *changed?*

Suddenly Leo *had* to lighten the mood, before his panic took over. "And just to be sure, I'll check for any hint of possible impersonation." And was rewarded by a few smiles. "Then again, if an imposter can fool the First Lady, what chance does a mere best friend have?"

And everyone rose to the occasion.

"Don't forget, he's right-handed except when he throws things."

"He likes double cream in his coffee."

"He's forever losing his glasses."

"And he roots for the Celtics."

Leo threw up one hand in mild disbelief. "Ah, the benefits of living in the public spotlight. Is nothing secret?"

*****

The hallways of the Residence were, as always, under observation by the Secret Service. The door to the President's sick room, however, boasted two special sentries. Leo smiled as he came upon Charlie Young, the President's personal aide, and Zoey Bartlet, the President's youngest daughter, seated side by side and chatting quietly together.

Both broke off when they saw him coming, and rose.

"Hi, Leo," Zoey said first. Charlie still stumbled over addressing the White House Chief of Staff by his first name, so he just nodded.

"Hey, kids. I see the President's perfectly safe, since you two are on hand." Leo placed an avuncular hand on one shoulder each. "How are you holding out?"

They exchanged a glance, then shrugged in unison. As if coordinating their responses.

"Not too bad," Charlie said at last.

"Good to be home," Zoey added.

Leo didn't read anything into this hint of collusion. These youngsters were dating, and clearly welcomed each other's support at such a time. Nothing more natural. "I'll bet. But if I were you, I'd enjoy the break. He'll be ordering *all* of us around again before we know it."

"Right," Zoey agreed with a smile. "Uh, my dad's asked for you."

"Yeah, I heard."

Leo paused; he couldn't completely ignore the seriousness. This was the first time he'd seen his best friend's little girl all weekend. She appeared to be handling everything fairly well, but no one passes through this kind of trauma unscathed. Her smile was a bit *too* broad, as though she were trying to convince herself as much as him.

"Zoey... he's going to be fine." And that was a vow.

Her smile widened some more, no doubt struggling to believe. "I know."

"All right." Leo squeezed her arm, and then turned to the closed door.

Drew an extra breath.

And entered.

*****


	8. And the World Stood Still 8

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

The first thing that immediately became apparent was the stillness. Shutting the door, Leo just stood there and experienced it. He could hear the hum and beep of the several medical devices present, but somehow they didn't quite overcome the pervading quiet, the sense of life *suspended* that could not possibly be normal.

And then he noticed the air. Not rich and sweet, the way the White House breathed history, but tainted with decontaminates and the specter of a slow and painful death.

The occupant of the bed did not react to this new presence. The room's bright lighting, at odds with normal sleep patterns, had no apparent effect either. Eyes closed, breathing regular. The only motion at all was the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

Softly, *fearfully*, Leo approached. Taking in the heart monitor, the blood pressure reading, the intravenous drip. The oxygen tube that maintained and monitored breathing. The thick blue pajamas that preserved body warmth. The white wrap around the head, the splinted left arm resting on top of the covers, the angry abrasions across one cheekbone, the ugly bruising about one eye. No other bandages could be seen, but he knew they were there...

The Chief of Staff looked down at Jed Bartlet's familiar features, utterly expressionless in sleep, and did not move himself. Wanting dearly to address his President. Wanting desperately to speak to his old friend. But certainly not wanting to disturb a rest that was so important for an anxiously-awaited recovery -

"Don't wake him."

Leo spun around so fast he almost lost his balance.

The well-known voice should have been warning enough. But he still wasn't prepared for the sight of Jed Bartlet's familiar features confronting him from the left, six feet away.

*At the same time.*

The President of the United States. Casually dressed. Up and about and uninjured.

*"WHAT - "* The White House Chief of Staff seemed to be saying that a lot lately.

"Shh! Keep it down. The poor guy needs his sleep."

Leo looked quickly back at the President sleeping, and back again at the President standing. Eyes wide, brows pinched and mouth open in sheer disbelief. This didn't quite surpass the shock of first hearing about the accident forty-eight hours ago, but it sure ran a close second.

Best friends don't put each other through such stress. And best friends these two had been for most of their lives. The second Bartlet wasn't quite smiling... still, a roguish glint in his eye suggested that he wanted to enjoy this vivid reaction for *one* moment at least.

That in itself was enough to prove to Leo which one was the real thing.

Slowly, his battered emotions began to make sense of all this, his stunned mind arrived at the obvious conclusion... and his expression settled into rather grim planes for a man who'd just learned that his old friend and, incidentally, his Commander-in-Chief, wasn't in peril of life and identity after all. He was just fine.

All that frantic worry, all that mental anguish, had been spent on the wrong man.

Just as slowly, Leo turned from the bed and straightened to his full height.

"Well, considering what the Presidency's going through, I'd say we *all* could use a restful night right about now."

The President looked puzzled. "Is this all the joyous welcome I get?"

He didn't get a smile, either. "Since *you're* not the one lying at death's threshold or courting mental incapacitation, I don't think it's deserving. You used an impersonator." Leo's voice rose in accusation at what he and countless others had been subjected to. "The man who swore he'd never deceive the American people is using a stunt double."

"Not 'is using', Leo. Once. Never before - and so help me God, never again."

"Which, of course, makes it all right. So there aren't any *other* President Bartlets running around here? How reassuring."

One essential aspect to old friendships is their level of absolute honesty. Few people had the audacity to reprimand a president of *any* country. Not that it happened often here, but Leo never hesitated to sound the conscience of their partnership when he felt it justified.

He set the folder of staff summaries down on the end table sharply, his anger visible and building. "Well, you're obviously going to have more time *and energy* to read these reports than any of us dared hope."

Another aspect to old friendships was the element of trust. Also, if a President can't trust his Chief of Staff, then he can't do his job.

This Chief of Staff chose not to strike that rather low blow. His feelings of hurt and injustice were counterbalanced by a surging relief. Besides, in all fairness he could see the difficulties in informing him any earlier than this without letting more people in on it. And the more minds, the more mouths.

Nevertheless, he had a job to do... and a Chief Executive to straighten out. Joy vied with outrage, back and forth. He walked over until they stood face to face, sparing the man in the bed this confrontation. "So, may I ask what was the critical matter that has resulted in you breaking your word and the entire country hanging on the edge of its seat, afraid that its President may not return to office, may not even live out the week?"

Nobody's perfect. If a mistake on his part could be *proven*, Jed Bartlet acceded. When he knew he was wrong, he didn't try to deny it.

Now, after a telling pause, he exhaled guiltily.

"You knew that Zoey made the honor roll in college this semester."

The recollection took a moment; academic excellence, even by the President's daughter, had taken a back seat of late. "I thought you'd resigned yourself to the fact that you couldn't make the honors ceremony. Not with that ACLU speech on the same evening."

"I thought I had, too." The President's tone was bitter. "Resigned myself to missing one of the highlights in my daughter's life. Resigned myself to her disappointment that my job wouldn't let me be there with her." His gaze wandered towards the bed. "And then Ron Butterfield told me about Tyler here."

Leo looked, too. The *other* President did not react, sleeping peacefully.

"He's a Canadian on contract computer work. Ron's security team ran across him quite by accident about a month ago in Syracuse. Last week, when I was bemoaning the injustice of my schedule and wishing I could get out of it gracefully, he mentioned the resemblance."

"And you jumped at the chance."

Bartlet glowered. "*Hell*, no. It took me two days to decide, two days to convince myself that just this *once* it would be worth the deception. And then another two days to arrange everything. Tyler Preston is half my age, but he looks so much like I did thirty years ago it's scary." The President shrugged. "A little make-up and some coaching, and he was all set to negotiate the hotel, shake some hands, walk outside and wave. The inaccessible public figure everyone expects to be on display, while I shared a personal moment with my family as I hardly ever get to do anymore. Now how dishonest is that?"

Leo shook his head. "Considering how things have snowballed of late, I'd better not answer." But he didn't press it; who could have anticipated such a fluke as a drunk driver at the one wrong spot *and* the one wrong moment? "So you ducked out the back door the second your speech was done and sped over to the college campus, right?"

"Ron had an unmarked car ready, and Zoey's part of the ceremony was at the very end. They took me straight backstage without anyone else knowing, and I got a beautiful view of the presentation."

Leo was starting to thaw. He understood a father's feelings.

"Did Zoey know?" There would have been far less purpose to all this otherwise.

Bartlet nodded in full agreement to that unvoiced thought. "Yes. So did Abbey; she was in the front row." He turned aside, his face creasing into a grin and his vision soft with the memory. "That was an amazing moment, Leo. My baby girl standing before the Dean and the entire faculty, trying not to sneak too many glances at me. I was just bursting with pride. I wouldn't have missed it for..." Then he came to himself, and stopped short of completing that expected phrase. In light of everything that had happened, it sounded terribly cliché right now.

"The world?" his old friend offered quietly. "Or just the country?"

He looked down. "Yeah, really." And sighed. "We'd all met privately afterwards, backstage, when the call came through about the accident. And that meant we had to take off in different directions, at once." He looked up again, his gaze smoldering. "It's not enough that we can't be together in a moment of triumph; we can't even be together in a crisis."

"It's the price we pay - "

"I know, I know." A wave dismissed the tired old rhetoric.

Leo took a deep breath. "At least Abbey and Zoey never believed for a moment that it was true."

"I wouldn't have lived with that. I'm having a hard enough time living with the rest." The President didn't - *couldn't?* - meet his eyes this time. "Dammit, Leo, I've always played straight with our staff and with the public. But for this incredible sequence of events, I would've just gone home with my family, Tyler would have been whisked away to his hotel, and no one else would have ever known. Either way, I'd already promised myself I would never stoop to that level again."

Leo conceded the general issue. "Well, we don't expect your limo to be sideswiped every other day. Still, as I'm sure you know, the country went through one hell of a night."

Bartlet's exhalation was explosive. "And I can't change that, however dearly I'd like to. I'll just have to make it up as best I can."

For a moment the outrage flared anew. "MAKE IT UP? How do you undo the anxiety and the fear already experienced? Do you have any idea just how worried we've all been?"

He rose to the challenge. "As a matter of fact, I do. I found out this very afternoon. In the main foyer. In *spades*."

That made Leo gape. "You were there?"

"Not in person. I've been hiding in my own House all weekend. But one of the staff had a camcorder, and the Service managed to sneak me a copy of the video. I had a better view than Tyler himself would have."

The President raised his eyes to the ceiling. "I saw all of you. And I couldn't believe it. You hear about people who've had near-death experiences - but this was revelation of a different kind. There's just no way to describe what I felt. Everyone was there solely because they're worried about me. What have I ever done to deserve such *affection?*"

The Chief of Staff did not answer right away. Hearing all too clearly how amazed and touched his boss had been. That was a memory to lock away in one's heart forever.

But his boss still had some music to face...

"You don't want to know how worried *I* was."

"Yes, I do - "

Leo brushed him off, fighting the memories. "First that you weren't going to live through this at all, and then wondering if you were ever going to be right in the head again. And your office had nothing to do with - "

"*I know*, Leo." The President gripped his friend's shoulder, *willing* him to listen. "I just asked myself how *I'd* have felt... if that had been you."

And that simple, meaningful statement brought his friend to a standstill.

Then Bartlet hung his head, clearly remorseful. "But there was no safe way that I could tell you before tonight. Everyone who knew was either at Walter Reed the whole time or else guarding the door to my cell here. We didn't dare risk a phone call. And if any of them had dropped by to see you in private, or if you'd been invited to the Residence before this evening, people would have known something was up. Even Abbey and Zoey couldn't leave the hospital until today."

The short distance between them filled with empathy to a painful level.

Finally, Leo nodded. "I understand."

And he did.

"Are you going to forgive me anytime soon?" That quiet petition was almost a plea for mercy.

"Oh, probably at *some* point." Leo didn't really want to *just* yet.

The President's famous (or infamous) humor was incapable of being suppressed for long. "Well, the next time I start to doubt my value around here, I'll know what to do. That may be a rather brutal method to ferret out one's supporters, but it *is* effective."

"Right on both counts." And the two men shared a grin at last.

Bartlet moved a few steps away. "Anyway, it was only right for Tyler to receive some of that sympathy himself, considering everything he's been through."

"Agreed. So how bad is *his* condition?" Leo asked. "I'm betting the official catalog of aches and pains has been downplayed somewhat," he added shrewdly.

The President confirmed his evaluation with a grave nod. "Yeah, it's not that good. But he'll recover eventually. It'll just take longer for him than it will for me. The paramedics made their own preliminary, and of course the hospital trauma staff had to know what they were treating. Doctor Nickels' report minimized that as much as possible without being unrealistic. You know, so as not to raise any suspicions when I stage a very rapid recovery. I don't want to hold up the nation's business more than I must."

Leo humphed. "Right, can't have that. I suppose we should be grateful Tyler didn't die at the scene. *That* comeback would be a bit harder to explain."

He got a sour look in return. "Back off, Leo. I'm blaming myself enough as it is."

"I sure hope so."

A pause settled between them.

"Who else knows?"

"Just Ron, two of his best people, Doc Nickels, and Admiral Hackett, who had to be called in anyway. Charlie was in on it from the start, just in case Tyler ran into some kind of glitch we hadn't foreseen."

"Uh-huh. Now I get the *real* reason why you insisted on the junior staff carrying the ball Friday night."

"Exactly. Even just for the walk outside, you guys would've known that wasn't me."

Leo folded his arms and said nothing. His silence, however, was most articulate.

Bartlet got the message. "All right, already. I hate the very thought that people have been worried about me all this time. But you know even better than I do that this building leaks like a sieve. The only way to nail the lid down so tight that the press never finds out is to keep it from the staff, too." Another sigh. "Even our closest people."

The reference to "our" staff is generally unusual for a president... and clearly indicative of the tight-knit partnership behind *this* President and his right-hand man.

Which only further increased Bartlet's pain at lying to his best advisors - who had also become his friends.

Leo nodded, not so much in consensus as in making the point. "Now you know why you always hated the idea of a double in the first place."

The President waved one hand in acknowledgement. "*Touché.*"

The Chief of Staff was watching him closely. "Why tell even me?"

Bartlet spun on him. Wounded and smarting. "Do you honestly have to ask that?"

Leo waited one calculated heartbeat. "No." And another, to let it sink all the way in. "Just... evening the score a bit."

After a moment, his Commander-in-Chief looked away. "Fine. I deserved that."

"*That's* for sure. On top of everything else, I was worried that the MS might complicate things even more." Leo closed his eyes, as though that would shut out the images in his mind. "If I hadn't known that Abbey was right there within minutes, I don't know *what* I would've done. Told *somebody*."

Still gazing to one side, the President winced ever so slightly.

"Is anyone *else* around here aware of that minor medical detail?" Leo asked in a gentler tone, sensitive to the delicacy of this particular topic.

Bartlet's hesitation proclaimed how much he hated to admit that his wish for privacy was endangering his life, hated to discuss this chink in his armor at all - even with his best friend. "Not before tonight. That's another unexpected benefit to this whole affair: I finally got it though my skull that we can't risk keeping it to just you, Abbey, Zoey and me." He exhaled heavily, yielding to the inevitable. "Hackett's on board now. He'll leave standing orders to be called in for all future health issues, whether he's on duty or not."

A nod of relief. "*Thank* you. That's one more load of my mind."

Silence.

"I'm curious as to why Tyler is still here," Leo wondered aloud. "He's certainly fulfilled his purpose."

Both men glanced over at the undisturbed patient.

"He's another reason why I feel so bad about all this. None of us thought for a moment that we might be actually setting him up as a target. I owe him something, and the best I could think of was a night in the White House. That *is* what the President is entitled to." The President smiled briefly. "He leaves late tonight for a safe house Ron has arranged in upper New York, all expenses paid until he's back on his feet. Abbey will plaster me up tonight so that I can make my appearance in a day or two."

Leo rubbed his eyes. "You're going to break every medical record on the books."

The whole country knew this mischievous smile. "That's the idea."

"You'd better lose some weight, though."

Bartlet's eyes narrowed. "And just what are you insinuating by that?"

"Well, a man on IV for a week is bound to shed a few pounds." Leo looked him up and down, and smirked. "Right now you won't fool anyone."

The President gave a derisive snort and pretended to cuff him. "Any more cracks like that and you'll regret it. But now that you mention it, I've got a few old extra-large sweaters around. Made to order."

"You *appear* to have everything under control."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

It was a great relief to share what little fun could be found in all this.

"Well, I guess everything is going to work out for the best after all, right?"

Bartlet stared at his friend, smile gone in an instant. "For *whose* best?" He waved at the bed. "Leo, that man may never be physically sound again in his life! And we're not even sure that Kevin Duane will pull through yet!"

"I know this sounds callous, but better them than you."

"Well, my conscience doesn't agree with you at the moment," he snapped back. "Even if Kevin makes it, he can kiss his career goodbye. How am I supposed to make *that* up, before you ask? I can pay his medical bills as well, but that won't replace what he's lost."

"He did his job. He wouldn't have wanted it otherwise." Still, for all their truth the words did have a hollow ring.

The leader of the free world started pacing. "When you talk about needing bodyguards, you figure you have to be someone pretty important. But right now I'm feeling pretty damned *small*. I hate the very idea of people risking their lives for me. Just because some fruitcake wants to shoot at me or run me down is no reason for other people to get hurt."

"Yet another price tag attached, if you're going to accept the responsibility of leadership. The President has to be protected."

"Yeah, yeah." After another few moments he stopped, brow furrowed in painful thought. "You know, *if* is far too small a word for the difference it can make. If I'd been there instead of Tyler, I would've lingered outside the hotel for at least a little while, and that kamikaze driver would've completely missed me."

"Or hit someone else," Leo pointed out solemnly. Remembering CJ's allusion to all the tiny details that can add up to sink an ocean liner - or kill a president. "Or, if your timing had been just as good as Tyler's here, you could have easily fallen a different way. You might've wound up with only a few bruises... *or*, you might've been killed outright."

The silence that fell between them now was sobering.

Leo heaved a sigh. "I'd say we all owe your replacement a big debt. And your bodyguard as well."

His expression somber, at last the President allowed himself a slow, final nod.

It was high time to restore some propriety. "Anyway, Mr. President, it's over and dealt with. Let's look on whatever bright side there is, and get on with running the nation. Among other things, it's obvious that we're going to have an easier time dealing with Hoynes than I originally thought when I first walked in here."

For one more long moment, Bartlet just stood there and studied his best friend. Then, suddenly, he laughed outright.

"Leo, I have *got* to nominate you for the next Bench vacancy. You can switch arguments faster than any lawyer I've ever met!"

*****


	9. And the World Stood Still 9

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

When the bedroom door swung open, three heads turned fast. Seeing the Chief of Staff's familiar features and unalarmed attitude, the Secret Service agent standing several yards down the hall relaxed. So did Zoey and Charlie, but their smiles were spreading.

Leo understood those expressions a lot better now. Still, he didn't let on just yet. "Come on in, you two. You're *wanted*."

To the uninitiated, it sounded like the President's status was definitely improving. The agent observed silently as all three of them re-entered, and the door closed tight.

"I think someone's been withholding information from me." Leo pretended to give Charlie his angry-boss glower. Being such an old friend of the family, he had watched Zoey grow up... and knew that he could no longer intimidate *her*.

The President's personal aide had been subjected to the Bartlet brand of humor often enough; he was learning to fall on his feet. "Just following orders. The President outranks you."

"And so does the President's daughter," Zoey put in. At Leo's double take she couldn't prevent a giggle. "Do you have a problem with that, *Mr. McGarry?*"

The President stepped into view from the side, obviously being careful to stay hidden whenever that door opened. "Now you see what I go through these days, Leo," he commented before his Chief of Staff could recover.

"Then you have my sympathies, Mr. President."

"Hey!" Zoey objected, trying not to laugh.

"You set yourself up for that one, sweetheart," her father declared merrily.

"And I hear tell that you two earned a couple of Academy Awards this weekend," Leo added, giving the two youngsters a look of fond admiration.

Zoey blushed a bit, and glanced self-consciously towards the bed. "Mom too. It was hard showing a stranger the affection everyone expected to see, even though he really *did* look like my dad."

"Glad to hear it," Bartlet grinned. "I'd hate to think I was that easily replaced." He had dragged a square dinner table into the open and was placing four straight-back chairs around it. As relaxed as though it were customary for the President to move furniture.

The three of them approached, wondering what that quick mind had in store now.

"Charlie, I won't be able to get out of using a wheelchair for the next couple of weeks at least. Are you up to providing propulsion some of the time?"

"Of course, sir."

Bartlet crossed the room and removed something from a drawer in the end table beside the bed. "You're sure? Some people would call this conspiracy, you know."

"Yes, sir." Charlie shifted feet, a little uneasily. "To be honest, after what I saw at the crash scene, I've had to remind myself quite a few times since that it *wasn't* you."

Their Chief Executive stopped short. Her own smile gone, Zoey moved a bit closer until she could touch Charlie's arm, and Leo watched compassionately from the other side.

After a moment, Bartlet nodded. "I know it won't be easy to forget that anytime soon," he said softly, seriously. "And I'm really sorry you had to witness it in the first place. But for now, we all have some major convincing to do. Truth is, I've been trapped in this deception as effectively as if I *was* in that crash. We'll all have to play by the same rules. If you can *stop* reminding yourself for awhile, you should find it easier."

And he paused, considerate as always. "Is that asking too much, Charlie? I'd understand if you feel it is."

The young aide glanced at the other two people present, awaiting his decision.

And straightened, a soldier taking his oath of allegiance. "No, sir. I'll be fine."

Three smiles broke out in unison.

"Good. Besides, I'll also need you to remind me that I'm *supposed* to be convalescing. So if I show a little too much energy or something, give my chair a kick, okay?"

A grin slipped past Charlie's control this time. "Yes, *sir*."

"Does that freedom of correction apply to me as well?" Leo wondered mildly.

His old friend glared at him. "No, it does *not*."

Grinning as well, Zoey nudged under her father's arm and hugged him. "This will be fun: everyone lording it over *you* for a change."

The President scowled at her. "Don't get any ideas, honey. A wheelchair won't prevent me from tightening your curfew even more."

Then his humor faded, and he drew a bit away.

"As my fellow conspirators and accomplices, I want you all to hear this. It's stunning - and downright scary - how a simple, innocent and natural choice, by a father who just wanted to see his daughter on a special occasion, has erupted into a secret capable of rocking the whole country. This is a huge PR gamble I've gotten us into; if it comes out, it could very easily cost me all public support - not mention destroying the personal trust that others have come to have in me. And I feel bad enough about abusing that trust once already."

Bartlet studied the three of them gravely. "If it so much as *threatens* to come out, I will make my stand, tell the truth and take the heat. That's the only thing I can possibly do before my friends, my staff, and the people. I refuse to perjure myself. I owe all of you that much courage at least."

His daughter, his best friend and his personal aide did not move. But there was apprehension on their faces... just imagining the furore that would result. And approval, too... knowing that their leader would do the right thing, regardless of the price tag attached.

"That also applies if a real emergency crops up, where an executive decision is needed. I'm prepared - for the moment - to preserve this illusion, which means letting the Vice-President have his shot. There's a limit to what he can do in such a short period. But I will not risk the welfare of the nation to spare myself some criticism." Pause. "I just thank God that nothing happened over these past two days when Leo was in the dark as well."

Leo's features tightened at the very thought.

Zoey fidgeted, looking decidedly guilty.

Her father saw the protest coming. "Don't say it, Zoey. Don't even *think* it. This was my decision all along, and I'll be the one to deal with it."

She hesitated, then managed a grin and hugged him again. "Okay."

"Okay." He hugged back. And then raised his head. "One more thing: if you guys pick up on the slightest suspicion by anyone, tell me."

The two men before him nodded their firm acceptance.

"Fine. From here on in I'm going to immerse myself into my role so deeply that I will actually forget it isn't real." Good idea, since the greatest acting fell to him. One little slip in a brief moment of forgetfulness would blow everything out of the water.

Finally, Bartlet smiled. "And I have been permanently cured of wanting to even *consider* such a deception ever again."

Everyone smiled back. So much the better; being a politician was quite dangerous enough without upping the ante like this. Had the venture succeeded, it might have encouraged a repeat performance.

"All right, enough pessimism." Now, with a flourish that threw off the somber mood, the President set a deck of playing cards and a stack of poker chips on the table. "*Lady* and gentlemen, take your seats." They moved to comply, realizing what he had in mind. "I'll probably regret this in future years, but if my daughter's going to learn poker at all, she might as well learn it right. And I want at least one good game on my last night of physical freedom for quite some time."

"You'd better hope we don't get any unexpected visitors," Leo warned only half in jest as he sat down with them. "I don't know how you'll explain *this*."

"That's what the Secret Service are supposed to be for. If necessary, I'll just duck under the bed and *you* can take the blame." Ignoring their chuckles, Bartlet opened the deck.

"Sure, that's what *I'm* here for." Leo divvied up the chips. "Oh, just so you know: I was advised by your staff belowstairs to check for any potential signs that the President had been replaced by an imposter."

All four laughed together at just how close that feigned suspicion came to the truth.

The White House Chief of Staff lifted his hands helplessly. "What am I supposed to tell them *now?*"

"Tell them the truth, of course!" The President thumped his chest. "The real me has been here all along. Longer than the imposter, in fact. Now enough about work. Charlie, from this moment any talk of business is off-limits. You have my permission to throw something at Leo *or* at me if either of us brings it up again."

The young man couldn't help a smile. "I'll be sure to take that task seriously, sir."

"Fine. Oh - and don't *anyone* mention this party to my wife."

Zoey laughed. "No problem, Dad." She leaned both elbows on the table, her eyes sparkling with the same devilish sense of amusement. "You do realize, however, that you're about to create your own worst enemy?"

Father and daughter traded smirks. "Sweetie, I'm *counting* on it. Some of the senior staff have been getting way too good lately, and I have to recoup my losses *somehow*. You're going to be my secret weapon." He started to deal.

Leo shook his head in resignation, grinning all the while.

Then the President sobered again. And almost involuntarily, his vision drifted back towards the occupied bed not far away.

"In any event, I want to be here when Mr. Preston wakes up. He and I haven't had a chance to chat yet, and the odds are good we'll never meet again."

*****

"No way. *No way.*"

"He's crazy!"

"It's the drugs talking."

"Are they *sure* there's no brain damage?"

"You can't be serious!"

Leo cut off this barrage. It was a *little* more vociferous than most senior staff meetings around here. The decidedly late hour might bear some of the blame, but not all of it. Of course, everyone had been waiting eagerly for his take on their leader's general state of health. What they heard, however, only raised fresh concern.

"Whether *I* am or not doesn't matter. The President *is* serious. He's not crazy, he's not mentally deficient, he was completely lucid the entire time. And he told me to tell you to co-operate."

"This is totally out of character." Toby spoke quietly, but he spoke for all others present. "Are you *certain* the man upstairs isn't a ringer?"

Leo's mouth twitched, as though fighting back a smile. "Oh, he's the real thing, all right. If I even suspected that, do you think I wouldn't do something about it?"

In fact, he appeared to have shed a few years' worth of anxiety over the last hour.

"But co-operating with Hoynes?" Sam pressed in enduring disbelief. "Has he lost all interest in the welfare of the nation?"

"If not that, then certainly in *us*," CJ said morosely.

Leo shook his head. "Try to face reality, folks. The Constitution is explicit, and even the President has to abide by it. If he isn't well enough to uphold his responsibilities, mentally *or* physically, then the Vice-President stands in. End of story."

"You mean, end of all we've accomplished," Sam corrected. "How much do you *really* trust Hoynes, Leo?"

"More than just about anyone else around here, it seems - including the President himself. But then, I've worked with Hoynes longer. I wouldn't have brought him on the ticket in the first place if I didn't think he was a good politician in his own right. All of which is beside the point. We don't want the public to know that the President and the *Vice*-President can hardly stand the sight of each other, do we?"

"I thought we were supposed to be honest," CJ groused.

Leo deflected her anger without flinching. "We *are* being honest. We're following the rules, and we're getting the job done."

"No way will Hoynes let us get the job done *right*!" Josh insisted. "I was there with you Friday. The man's on a power trip!"

"But he's not suicidal."

"Do you honestly believe you can influence him that much?" Mandy demanded. She was the only one present not an actual party member, and as a result more objective. A bit.

Leo sighed. "I don't know. But you can bet that I'll do my level best."

"Face it, Leo." Toby sounded like the voice of doomsday. "This is precisely what Hoynes has been dreaming of for a long, long time. He's not going to listen to you, he's not even going to listen to the President... and he's sure not going to listen to us."

"We deal with it." The Chief of Staff's tone was inflexible. So were his words. "That's what the President wants."

Silence crashed upon them like a dropped anvil. Clearly all the arguments in the world would not change that overriding fact.

"As for just *how* we deal with it... that's something else."

Five heads jerked back. Leo now wore his crafty expression - a cool calculation honed from decades of political experience.

Seeing that everyone's attention had been recaptured, he went on. "Our battle plan is straightforward: we give Hoynes the courtesy and the support he *won't* be expecting. We will work with his people, we will abide by his decisions, we will provide the same quality of input that we always give to the President. We are going to show our VP that we have the best interests of the nation at heart, regardless of who's running it, and that we're doing our utmost to help him become the *next* best President around."

Josh made a contemptuous noise. The glances he got were full of agreement.

Leo continued with even more emphasis. "Hoynes doesn't yet realize just how much acclimatization is in store for him. He's been safely out of the spotlight for some time. He hasn't got past the public prestige of the Oval Office to the painstaking details that every President has to deal with. He's not going to have *completely* free reign around here, no matter what he thinks. It's your task to prove to him that this isn't a one-man show, that your assistance is vital to getting anything done, and that he needs to rely on everyone's contribution. We're not polarized against him personally - and we don't spend our days around here just sucking up to the boss, either. If he hasn't already figured that out, then it's high time he learned. Whatever mistakes he makes will be his, not yours.

"The President could be back on his feet in as little as a month. We can survive Hoynes for that long. Just do your jobs, and get him through it. Get *us* through it."

After this pep talk, no one else objected aloud. Still, there were less than delighted attitudes on all sides.

"And keep private written records of *everything*."

Again, everyone refocused in a hurry.

Leo nodded, tight-lipped. "This is a test."

A test - to see if the Vice-President could be trusted with such a colossal and delicate task. If he could put aside his own ambitions and concentrate on doing his best for America, at least for awhile. If he could channel his own considerable talents honestly for duty's sake.

Or if he was President Bartlet's direst enemy.

And any enemy of the President...

The senior staff traded looks again. And their eyes began to kindle, and their smiles became positively conspiratorial.

*****

Upstairs, the man lying in the presidential bed finally stirred, one muscle at a time. With painful slowness, his eyes cracked open, meandering and clouded. His brain didn't seem to want to work quite right, either. He took a long time to register on the ornate ceiling, the tall windows, the portraits on every wall. They were familiar in some way, but not really *known*.

Sounds filtered gradually through the fog. Regular, high-pitched beeps. A steady, electrical hum. A woman's voice, strong and all-business. A man's voice, firm yet gentle.

"His EEG is as stable as we can expect. I can't do anything else right now. A few minutes' talking will be a good gauge, but don't overdo it."

"Thanks, Abbey."

Physical discomfort started to penetrate and localize: right leg, left arm, chest, head. Yet he was too utterly strengthless to move more than a few fingers. The right hand seemed more responsive of the two - but why did it feel so *heavy*? He managed somehow to shift the whole forearm across his torso, slide it up the blanket in short stages to his throat, then with a supreme effort over his face. The fingers responded sluggishly, but at last he could detect his own skin... as well as gauze and cloth where skin should be.

His confusion multiplied. Where was he? What had happened to him? Why was he so weak? Who had just spoken? How did he come to be in pain, bandaged? His hand fell back limply, exhausted, trembling in despair. He was helpless, frightened, and totally alone -

"Hello, Tyler."

The man's voice again. Nearby, and speaking a name he responded to instinctively. Someone who could explain, for good or bad. He tried to turn that way at once, to find out *now*. His neck was unwilling to obey. Left with no alternative, fighting panic at what had been done to him without his knowledge, and what may yet be in store, his eyes swiveled to the right.

A dark shadow loomed ominously close and hideously vague. Still, the voice had been friendly enough. He struggled to realign his point of focus. After a few seconds the image sharpened into dark brown hair, a green sweater, brilliant blue eyes, and a smile that certainly *looked* kind. But was it a ruse?

Who...

Something finally sank in, widening his eyes in disbelief. *Himself?*

"Jed Bartlet."

And just like that, the confusion was swept away. That name had been the key. The name, and the face they shared.

This time his neck responded - must have been the jolt - letting his head rotate several degrees to starboard for a better view.

That face - an older version of *his* face - did not change. Either this was one spectacular dream... or else he had to be in the presence of -

"Missah Pres'den'!" was the best his raw throat could do despite the shock.

The smile broadened. "Easy, there; save your strength. You've really been through the wringer." The voice was familiar, even to a Canadian. "And I blame myself."

Blame? That didn't make sense. He still didn't know what had happened, but it seemed rather unlikely that the President of the United States could have been the direct cause.

He tried to swallow, to speak articulately. "Nah..."

"Say, would you like a drink?"

Nodding was almost impossible, but his change of expression accepted the offer. The face moved away, glass clinked and liquid whispered beyond his sight. Then a deep rumble vibrated through the bed, his upper half was slowly raised several degrees, and a straw touched his dry lips. He sipped, with effort, then with relief.

"Not too much, now; you'll shock your system."

The cool water tasted so good that he was tempted to ignore that advice. But then he remembered whose advice it was. And stopped, breathing faster from what *should* have taken no effort at all. The cup and straw were removed, and the face returned.

"Better?"

"Yeah." The ease with which words now came surprised him. "Thank you... sir."

"Good." The bed's new angle was a welcome change to his protesting back and eased the strain on his eyes. The President - it must really be him - sat right beside him, as natural as could be. "Tyler, do you know what has happened?"

He thought about that. Images chased each other around in his unsteady brain. None of them held still long enough to make much sense. "Uh... not... sure..."

"A week ago, a guy named Ron Butterfield approached you in Syracuse with a request on my behalf." The voice was gentle, considerate. Like a stabilizing anchor in rough seas. "He asked if you'd be willing to visit Washington - and be President for an evening."

He closed his eyes and felt around in the mists for a resonance of memory. And, bit by bit, the memory drifted up into the light.

"Oh... yeah... a hotel... a car... hate driving in Washington..."

"Actually, *you* weren't driving. That was my private limousine."

It was coming back faster. "A limo... a chauffeur... a bright light...?"

"That's it, Tyler." The President smiled again, as though absolutely thrilled that he recalled anything. "You'd just left the hotel, pretending to be me, and the limo was taking you back to your own place. And on the way... some fool ran you off the road."

His eyes widened. This time, in renewed fear. "A crash... breaking glass - "

"Hey, relax. That was two days ago. It's over." The voice grew stronger, steadier. Beating back the fresh waves of panic. "I'll admit, you were rather banged up. But you're going to be all right."

He forced his weighted hand to finger again the bandage around his temple. And this time, he discovered the tube feeding into his nose. There was still no response anywhere else.

"How... bad?"

The President wasn't smiling now. But the voice held firm, comforting. "You've got quite the collection of fractures: in your right leg, your left arm, a couple of vertebrae and half a dozen ribs. Also, you took a nasty crack to the head, there are a few patches where you got in the way of some flying metal, and you must be bruised up one side and down the other. You'll be on oxygen for awhile yet, until your lungs are stronger. There were a few internal complications, but my doctor has already taken care of those. What's left will all heal eventually." The face moved a bit closer still, holding his eyes. "You seem to be pretty with it - and you don't know how glad I am to see that."

He just lay there, thoughts in a whirl. He'd been virtually shattered to pieces... and the President had put him back together...

"How do you feel, Tyler?"

He thought about *that*. And said the first thing that came to mind. "Tired."

"I'll bet. And here I am talking your ear off."

"S'okay..." He didn't want the President to leave. And he did owe the President more detail than one word. "Hurts... here and there..."

"They can give you something for that if it gets bad. To be honest, the pain is a good sign. Trust me. My wife's a doctor."

A bell went off. "First Lady?"

The President's smile grew broader. "Herself. I'll arrange an introduction later. She's been keeping a close eye on you. Anyway, she admits to the pros and cons of heavy medication. Too much and you can't think straight. Myself, I'll take the pain."

He saw the virtue in that: about what one might expect of a world leader. A standard to aspire to. "A - agreed."

Speaking of pain... "What about - others?"

"Well, the guy who caused all of this walked away. Wouldn't you know it? And the driver of the limo doesn't have much to complain about, either." The voice paused, any hint of humor now completely gone. "I'm afraid, though, that the agent riding with you didn't fare so well. He's still holding his own - but even if he does make it, he'll probably never walk again."

Silence, deep and regretful.

"He tried... protect me."

The voice lightened again. "That's what the paramedics all insisted they heard you say in the ambulance. We were wondering if it was delirium." Pause. "And I'll admit that I am glad you didn't say anything else that would've been harder to explain."

He couldn't get away from the thought of that bodyguard trying so desperately to save *him*. "He shouldn't'a..."

"That was his job. He knew exactly what he's supposed to do in such a situation."

"But... he knew I wasn't - he didn't have to risk himself... just for me..."

"Oh, you deserved it, Tyler. We sure didn't want a dead impersonator, for your sake *and* ours. Whether Kevin Duane had time to remember that, or whether he forgot and reacted instinctively, it don't really matter. By saving your life, for all intents and purposes he also saved mine." Pause. "Which means that, in a very real sense, so did you."

The right hand moved in a weak wave of dismissal. "My job, too..."

"Well, that wasn't intended, but I won't argue with you right now." The smile returned. "So, a belated welcome to the White House."

His heart jolted again. "Huh?"

"I'm afraid it was the best hospitality the American Government could come up with on such short notice." A light chuckle. "Too bad you haven't seen more of the place. Unfortunately, this will have to be your only night here. In a few more hours some of my people are going to move you to a safer place closer to your home, so you can recuperate in peace. You do realize it's kind of dangerous to have *two* Presidents around?"

"Yeah - sir." The whole conversation was so laid-back that he had to keep reminding himself of just who was speaking to him.

"Right. And believe me, peace can be hard to find in this place. Anyway, these friends of mine are going to stay with you for awhile. They'll contact anyone who may be worried about your absence, and they'll look after your needs until you're one hundred percent better." The voice paused, before resuming on a more subdued note. "I feel really bad about your ordeal, Tyler. This is the least I can do."

His mental connections were getting a bit elusive. Gamely he struggled on. "Thought it'd be fun... a Canadian for President..."

"I am so sorry it hasn't been *more* fun for you. I want you to know that we honestly believed there'd be no risk in it at all. This double nonsense is hardly the theatrical precaution one might expect. Believe me, I prefer to fight my own battles. And as a rule I refuse to play fast and lose with the public." Again, a pause. "I just thought..."

He heard the regret, and made the connection from his briefing. It seemed ages ago. "Your family. Understood." Another image popped into mind and he voiced it. "Our Prime Minister... isn't quite so smothered."

"Well, if you speak to him any time soon, tell him I said he should count his blessings."

Like there was much chance of that. But after playing President, just about anything was possible. "... Yes... sir."

"And I'm counting *my* blessings right now. I owe you one, Tyler. And so does every other citizen of the United States, even if they never know it."

He didn't mind. He was having a harder time minding anything. So tired...

Then he gradually registered on the warm pressure now being applied to his right fingers.

The President was shaking his hand.

The face was smiling more warmly than ever, and the voice was soft. Full of meaning.

"Thank you."

He had to remember this... had to lock it away... and never... forget...

*****


	10. And the World Stood Still 10

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

Monday, 8:00 A.M.

The first day of the week dawned bright and clear at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, punctuated by the usual sounds of vacuums cruising over expensive carpet, phones ringing, computer keyboards clicking, printers churning out the day's first reports... and undercurrents of rebellion not seen since the Civil War.

In a nutshell, the negotiated Weekend of Grace was over, and the White House was bracing for what many people who worked there feared would amount to a hostile takeover.

What a minute - the WHITE HOUSE?

Yes, *that* White House. The one in Washington, the one that influenced national and *inter*national politics. The whole world inched towards the edge of its seat and held its collective breath, wondering worriedly just what was about to happen next and the repercussions that would transpire for all...

John Hoynes arrived with the air of a conquering hero (which he thought he was), rather than a temporary stand-in (which everyone else thought he was - among other things). Marching in step were his entire personal staff, second in number to the President's alone, looking far too much like an army backing up its general for any presidential employee's comfort... and a volume of Secret Service agents that no *Vice*-President *normally* deserved, eerily resembling hired mercenaries loyal only to whoever wielded the most power.

Only the President entered the West Wing from the outside terrace, since only he came from the Residence - which also meant, of course, that his staff never accompanied him there (with two exceptions: Leo and Charlie), and rarely more than one or two agents as well. To contrast as much as possible, Hoynes veritably paraded with his sizable entourage straight through the building's most public (and, incidentally, most populated) corridors, very much on display, drawing stares left and right, and loving every moment as a result. There was nothing the least bit subtle in this display of influence, and something only slightly less blatant in his projected attitude proclaiming that everyone had better not ignore him.

Mrs. Landingham looked up from her desk as he strode into her reception area. His proud smirk faded a bit here; she was, in actuality, the first line of opposition that he could expect to encounter. Even a Vice-President with executive control in a national emergency should not attempt to bully a veteran public servant of eighteen years and five presidential tenures, especially when said public servant was to be his new administrative assistant.

Said public servant would also be a useful barometer on the genuine feeling behind those polite nods in the halls outside.

"Good morning," she greeted him quite pleasantly, "Mr. Vice-President."

There was a slight pause between salutation and title, as though she had to resist the pull of old habit with her *real* boss's title. Hoynes noticed it, simply because he had anticipated something of the sort. He also noticed that she did not seem obviously impressed by the number of people crowding in after him. Sure, she'd seen a lot of diplomatic processions to a presidential audience before - but this was *him*.

"Good morning," he replied, "Mrs. Landingham." In the exact same tone and fashion, as if he'd almost forgotten *her* name, and as a clear indication that *her* pause had not been missed and would not soon be forgiven. And he stood there in front of her, hands on his hips. "I'd like some coffee, please." *This* tone advertised to all within earshot that in the future his coffee was to be ready for his arrival. Like it was the job of the President's personal secretary to wait hand and foot on the President's replacement.

She never blinked. Outnumbered perhaps twelve to one - but this was her office, not his. Not even the President's. "At once, sir. How do you take it?" The question was very courteously expressed... a pacifying effect promptly nullified by her return to her writing, as though his preference had no import at all.

Hoynes cleared his throat, once. If *that* wasn't a strong enough indication of his displeasure - "One cream, no sugar." Just itching to make an example of the first person to offer the slightest contention to the *new* President, veteran staffer notwithstanding. Some of his followers exchanged glances behind him that ranged from concern through anticipation.

Mrs. Landingham tore off the note she'd just finished and set it in a prominent place by her computer monitor. Not even glancing at the Vice-President, whose features were darkening by the second.

And read aloud from it: "One cream, no sugar."

And *then* turned back with a quiet smile. "I'll make sure we have your coffee ready for you in the future, sir."

Hoynes exhaled quickly, before he exposed his suspicions any more than he already had. Deciding with both reluctance and relief that she was too much of a professional to treat him other than properly. He wouldn't need to flaunt his status around *this* employee, at least; she knew her place.

Before he could come up with even a thank-you, Mrs. Landingham nodded to the closed door on her left. "Mr. McGarry and the senior staff are awaiting your convenience, sir."

That reference to *the* Office put the Vice-President back on track. Arrogance resettled into place at once. "Thanks." And strode that way.

She watched the parade go by, carefully expressionless.

Of course, the Vice-President didn't open his own doors. Even *this* door. One of his own staffers did the honors, stepping back to allow his boss full precedence.

His boss did, stalking into the Oval Office as though *he* owned it and no one else. From the sofas arranged around the presidential seal in the room's center six people silently rose, but Hoynes ignored them for the moment. He ran a critical hand over a nearby table in passing to check the dust level, and glanced across at the portrait of George Washington to make sure it hung straight. Then he moved to the desk, turned his back on everyone and gazed silently out the tall windows, admiring the view, as if he himself had personally won the right to rule this majestic capital city and its distant realms flung out before him.

His pronouncement was low; perhaps no one overheard. "All this is *mine*."

Then he revolved, looking at that desk for the first time from *behind* it. Frowned, and moved the pen-holder a few inches sideways from the position established by its rightful owner to better suit *his* liking. And then, savoring this virtual enthronement, lowered himself slowly into the leather chair reserved for the Commander-in-Chief of the United States of America.

And let out a long, satisfied sigh. *At last.* This was where he belonged.

And only then did he spare notice for anyone else in the room.

The senior staff, plus Mandy, had lined up with military precision. Silent, shoulders back, individual reports under the left arm. The men wore their blazers; the women wore suits with skirts rather than the slacks they often preferred. Leo stood at their head, Josh just behind his left shoulder, the others similarly positioned as smartly as chess pieces a few degrees off the desk's west corner, leaving plenty of room for Hoynes' staff to gather towards the east.

*Their* presence, glaringly casual by comparison, made them look like a gang of disorderly amateurs before real professionals.

They got the point, too. Several among them shuffled into a rough mirror stance, glaring angry daggers that they felt compelled to sharpen up around anyone else. The Secret Service agents fell discretely to the rear, beyond *anyone's* criticism.

None of the presidential staff spared their ostentatious opponents a glance. In fact, there was no obvious indication of resentment from any of them.

Why NOT?

For whatever reason, that seeming ambivalence did not erase the illusion of a veritable scrimmage line being drawn across the presidential carpet...

On the other hand, it also might have appeared to an uninformed observer that these two forces were prepared to do battle *for* the man behind the desk, not *because* of him.

Hoynes settled himself a little more deeply into the chair. This was where *the* real fight would be waged. And then he relaxed, supremely confident, and rocked back to a comfortable angle. A move plainly designed to rankle those people most used to seeing only one other person in that place of honor.

Curiously enough, he got no reaction at all. The six of them remained stiffly at attention, showing no overt emotion at all, like well-drilled soldiers for him to inspect.

He didn't actually get up and walk around them; that *would* be going too far. But the time had come at last to show that the U.S. Vice-President was firmly in charge.

"Good morning, everyone." In a deceptively warm voice; the undercurrent practically shouted *I'll be nice so long as you stay in line.*

"Good morning, Mr. Vice-President," Leo responded for his staff. There was no pause in the title here, and no hint anywhere between the words of less than perfect respect.

"Yes, it certainly is." Again the subtext was self-evident: *Now that I'm here, it's very good indeed.* No one could doubt that Hoynes was deliberately trying to provoke, being quite certain that no one would dare call him out on it.

Five mouths were thin lines, though not quite scowls. Leo managed a slight smile somehow. "On behalf of the presidential staff, sir, I would like to welcome you to the Oval Office. Your assistance at this time is very much appreciated."

He could not have sounded more deferential, yet Hoynes still found reason to take umbrage: his *assistance*, as if they could do very well without him. Of course, he knew they'd prefer to do precisely that rather than come to him, and only the United States Constitution made this possible. But to have it so brazenly worded -

Then he reined himself in, irritation or no; Leo hadn't really *said* anything that could be labeled insolent. It was all a matter of interpreting what you *wanted* to hear.

Considering the frustration that these six had to be feeling, however well they suppressed it around him, the Vice-President could afford to be magnanimous since *he* was in the position of power. He'd be merciful and grant Leo that one natural slip. Of course, the next one would not be dealt with so leniently. And there would be more...

A polite knock was followed by Mrs. Landingham with a steaming cup of coffee. "Here you are, Mr. Vice-President."

"Thanks." He accepted it as no more than his due. And might have missed the fleeting look of horror on two or three faces that anyone would presume to ask this matronly lady to perform such a menial errand. But by a superhuman effort, no one commented aloud.

Everyone before the desk remained very still, waiting. President Bartlet did not revel in the respect people always showed him, always *had* to show him; the vast majority of the time he insisted that his staff stay in their seats rather than rise at his presence. And he certainly never *kept* them standing - save for those rare occasions when he was very peeved indeed.

His stand-in did not invite anyone to sit down. Not even his own followers.

"I believe you know everyone, sir." Leo maintained his formal responsibilities, prepared to handle any introductions required. Certainly Hoynes came and went often enough to know the President's leading people, Mandy being the only obvious exception.

The Vice-President waved him off impatiently. "Of course." A private media consultant did not rank among his greatest concerns at the moment.

Now he leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk in a clear gesture of taking possession. Did he hear a couple of jaws grind? That was more like he expected. "All right, let's have at it. We're going to see just what we can get done around here."

Like the President and his staff *didn't* get a lot done on a regular basis?

No one rose to the attack, again to his surprise. Even Leo didn't take the bait.

"Yes, sir. The entire staff is at your disposal. They're not accustomed to slacking off, so there should be little change in production."

Translation: don't push us just to throw your weight around.

The office of the Vice-President might see less public scrutiny and appear virtually powerless by overall comparison, but it was still a demanding position that required political skill and a certain ruthlessness. And all politicians had to be experts at reading between the lines. Hoynes heard the unvoiced commentary loud and clear.

"I *am* familiar with the Oval Office, Leo."

"With respect, sir," Leo persisted calmly, in fact gently, "you are not *as* familiar with that particular chair." The Chief of Staff, even more experienced in this delicate art form, was being very careful not to antagonize his temporary (and temperamental) boss. "The President's orders have come down: we are to assist you in any way possible during your tenure, however you may need us."

A-ha - obeying the chain of command under duress. That was what the Vice-President fully intended to exploit and even enjoy.

He leaned back again with a smug smile. "Oh, I think *my* people will be able to handle things on their own." In essence dismissing both the President's order to be helpful and the entire senior staff's *ability* to be helpful.

Leo didn't turn a hair, increasing the formality to an almost farcical level. "With even more respect, sir, may I take leave to point out the benefit of working together, at least until everyone is fully versed in their new duties. The entire country is depending upon us." He paused politely. "The final decision is, of course, yours."

*For now,* no one added but almost everyone thought.

Hoynes narrowed his eyes at this perceived objection. He did *not* like being accused of ignoring the nation's needs. "I'm hardly a novice in politics, *thank* you. I don't need to have my hand held just because I've changed desks."

Changed desks FOR HOW LONG?

"We all know that, sir." Which hinted at a general consensus on Hoynes' abilities as well as prevented the rest of the senior staff from being entirely left out of this discussion. "We do, however, want to provide all the assistance we can. This next little while may occasionally get a bit tricky for all of us in different ways." Note that no actual time limit was mentioned, and that it only *may* give rise to some problems now and then, and not just for the Vice-President, and not in any specified fashion. "The President's staff is available, capable and insightful, and here for the sole purpose of serving you." Meaning that Hoynes would be no less than a fool to reject such an obvious and valuable asset that otherwise would have nothing at all to do. "I would gladly convene any staff briefings you require, and I hope you will be free to attend as well, so that you know exactly what's happening at all times, and so that we can make certain we're all on your wavelength."

Leo should have been a diplomat! Not even the ambitious paranoia of a presidential stand-in could take exception at *that* speech.

Hoynes was looking unsure of himself for the first time since he walked in. Naturally he had envisioned hard opposition arrayed against him from the start, opposition which had no chance against *his* position and no hope in hell of changing his mind. And yet there was no sign of patronizing from any of them. This absolute lack of the anger he had so confidently predicted and prepared for left him somewhat off-balance.

All present waited in silence for the Vice-President's response. Several of the "visiting" staffers shifted in place, clearly no less bewildered by this twist to the standardized political infighting game plan. The Presidential Six did not dare make a move to tip the scales. From behind, the tension could be seen right across Leo's shoulders.

No politician got to the Capitol, much less the White House, without learning how to land on his or her feet. Hoynes regrouped his thoughts and decided that at this point it would make more sense to accept the lack of resistance - at face value, anyway. He refused to believe any truce would continue indefinitely, but he'd just deal with the rebellion when it *did* break out. Meanwhile, he wanted some time to learn every nuance of this office that he possibly could. There would be no mistakes during *his* administration.

"All right. Let me familiarize myself with my new schedule, and then we'll have a little get-together and hear what you all have to say."

A "little get-together"? *That* broadcast wideband just how much import he attached to their input. And did he by any chance manage to slip in a *royal* "we"? (Now you don't accuse a republican citizen of THAT.)

"Yes, sir. At your convenience. I'd like to suggest that in the interim we pair up assignments to facilitate the indoctrination period." Leo left that one cautiously vague, and for good reason. He didn't wait for their new leader's approval this time, but forged onward as though there was just no other logical alternative. Which there really wasn't, from *either* perspective. "As I'm sure you all know," he addressed the *other* staff line, "CJ is our Press Secretary."

Either Hoynes had his first attack of common sense this morning, or else he was tired of trying so futilely to decipher Leo's motives for one day. He gave a curt nod to one of the men in his own ranks. "Robert."

The selected individual slowly stepped forward. CJ needed no such cue; Leo's instructions had been clear and to the point. Most of the senior staff from both offices knew each other at least by sight - which is not to say they got along. That detail, however, was to change today. Whether for all time or not had yet to be determined.

CJ was also the best actor among them by far. She advanced with a friendly smile and an extended hand. "Good to see you again, Rob. You can use my office for as long as necessary. I'll introduce you to the White House Press Corps later this morning." She invited him to accompany her out of the Oval Office, chatting pleasantly all the while. "One guy has a particularly strange sense of humor, and a few others never lose the chance to ask some really biting questions. I'll point them out. And I have a couple of suggestions about certain topics and how it might be best to present them - but anytime you want me to shut up, just say so."

And so the standard of cooperation had been set. Toby, Sam, and even Mandy left in turn with one of the Vice-President's staff, promising full hospitality and helpfulness. No one objected, and at least on the surface everyone was quite agreeable with the arrangements. Josh being the odd man out, as far as an established duty roster was concerned, he got stuck playing maitre d' to the rest of Hoynes' cheerleaders. There would be some scrambling to find office space for them all.

At long last only two men remained, excepting the silent black-suited agents almost invisible in the background.

If Hoynes believed there was an ulterior purpose to this totally unanticipated warm welcome, Leo would hear about it now. He stood stiffly and waited.

Perhaps the Vice-President had been humbled (a little) by such selflessness. Or perhaps he just decided to get to the bottom of it later, when guards were lower.

"Thanks for the smooth arrangements, Leo." And his nod was gracious enough.

"My job." Which was true enough. "And my pleasure." Which was also true, in fact. Lack of friction around here right now would be worth almost any price. "Is there anything else I can do for you, John?"

The sudden cold stare Hoynes leveled at him quashed that friendly overture flat. Normally, when alone, these two men were on a first-name basis. No longer, it seemed. All old debts had been swept aside. For the first time, he spoke as to a subordinate - harshly. "Don't dangle our party history in front of me, Leo. Not now, and certainly not here."

The silence that fell between them reverberated. The Chief of Staff looked more than a little taken aback. Watching his last hope at maintaining an atmosphere of anything other than open enmity dissipate like smoke. He needed several seconds to find speech again. "I wasn't trying to, Mr. Vice-President."

"Good." It didn't *sound* good, but it did cut off any further elaboration on Leo's part. "Right now I don't need anything that I haven't already got."

Hoynes's tone, indeed his whole posture, would give anyone chills. He meant, of course, full and personal control of the most powerful nation on earth. Which he had coveted for years, and which he fully intended to run his way.

"Oh - and if you speak to the President later, give him my best."

How he articulated those words without choking on them defied belief. Leo blinked several times before he recovered. "*Yes*, sir."

"Fine. I'll get back to you in a bit."

So cavalierly dismissed, Leo did not quite bow, but he mustered a nod. "Thank you, Mr. Vice-President." And, shoulders hunched, he headed for his own office, right next door. Leaving a man other than Jed Bartlet in that chair.

And successfully hid his snarl until he was safely out of sight.

*****


	11. And the World Stood Still 11

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

The day passed very slowly, even for government...

It took Josh most of that day to track down the four people he *normally* worked closest with - not because the White House was so labyrinthine (which it was) but because he absolutely had to contact them without their new partners' awareness. To accomplish this involved drafting half of the lower staff echelon into messenger service and organizing them to spell each other off on covert surveillance so that it didn't look like any one person was waiting around for a chance to share information with certain people and not with certain others.

The Vice-President's employees would naturally know most of the tricks to this peculiar trade called politics, but they couldn't know most of the thirteen hundred employees all around them. So Josh gave a note to Donna, who gave it to Jeffery, who slipped it to Sam when passing him in the hall, who ducked out of sight to scribble his reply. Sam then handed it off to Ginger, who gave it to Bonnie, who waited around as long as she dared before giving it to Andrew, who eventually gave it to Carol, who finally managed to smuggle it to Toby. All of this orchestrated through only a few whispered words and significant glances. It was a measure of desperation rather than trust that brought Danny Concannon into the conspiracy, but it reaped rich dividends: he found CJ and Mandy in the same room, with Robert, who did not know yet to suspect this particular reporter. And about said reporter the *real* Press Secretary made no move to enlighten the *acting* Press Secretary. Working together without a word in advance, Danny and CJ kept Robert's attention focused while Mandy added her own two cents to that paper, and then Mandy joined Danny in covering for CJ in the same fashion.

There was a basic standard that such important and public figures rarely discussed business out of the office, since even the most private places could be compromised when state secrets were concerned. Then again, if this quintet was observed getting together anywhere inside or outside the White House, unaccompanied, by any of their veritable shadows from that *other* office (or any affiliate, for that matter), suspicions would skyrocket and with justification. So four of them carried out a pretense of wrapping for the night, in some cases leaving with their "apprentices", and headed straight home like good civil servants. Leo had already departed by that point, no doubt under watchful eyes; Hoynes drew things out as long as he could before being limoed away in presidential splendor.

Ages later, Donna stuck her head into Josh's office. "Josh?"

Slumped in his chair, he rolled his head sideways from the boring TV newscast. His eyes were heavier than usual. "Is this stupid vigil finally over?"

She nodded, smiling. "The last of the enemy has retreated from the field."

"Hallelujah." He rubbed a hand over his face in weariness. "Which means that you are hereby officially relieved of duty. Go on, beat it."

"How gracious of you." Long used to his attitudes, Donna left with alacrity before he could change his mind.

Groaning from the effort, Josh stretched for his phone and dialed out. When the other party answered, he had only two words to pass along: "They're gone."

Within another thirty minutes the other senior four, now in civvies, had signed themselves back in. Sam was last, and for good reason: he brought the supper. Predictably.

"One of these days I swear I'm going to retire from this," he complained as he plopped a huge pizza and a bag of soft drinks on the table.

"Oh, we can't let our resident expert do *that*," Mandy assured him pleasantly.

Josh locked the door to the meditation closet (it was really too small to be classified as a room, the five of them almost literally rubbing shoulders around its diminutive table) and plunked himself gracelessly into the last vacant chair. With his tie half-undone, two shirt buttons open and both sleeves sloppily rolled up, he met the evening's casual dress code as well as anyone else. "This is the first time I've relaxed all day."

"Ditto," Sam concurred, partitioning the pepperoni. "I had to lay off the coffee; it was making me too jittery."

"Oh, is *that* what was wrong," Toby wisecracked dryly. Still, he too lightened up in a relief shared by all that they didn't have to guard their every word and movement in this company, here, now. He'd even left *his* tie at home.

"Hey!" Mandy sat up suddenly, attracting attention at once. They'd all become far too accustomed to tension over the last seventy-two hours. "What if one of these hotshots thinks to check the sign-in sheets? They'll know we were all here together!"

"Well, so much for not fostering the *Us Against Them* scenario," Toby observed even more dryly, starting on his slice.

"You've been watching too many spy movies, kid," Josh suggested in that patronizing tone he did so well around her. Their romantic history might have had something to do with honing it. "Those records are for security eyes only. If Hoynes is so schizoid that he has to go to the Security Council and impound the White House access logs just to see if we *might* be chatting behind his back after quitting time, then I'd say we'll finally have solid grounds for wondering if *he's* got brain damage."

The lot of them traded amused glances. *If only...*

"Anyway, Hoynes & Co. were promised an invitation to any briefing Leo calls. Who, of course, has been under their observation all day. This one is *my* initiative." Josh exhaled. "I gotta tell you, I will be *so* glad when life gets back to normal. I don't go in much for this leadership thing."

Mandy couldn't resist a comeback. "Yeah, it's not keeping with your reputation."

Josh looked too tired to fight just now. "*Anyway*, I can always spread the blame around by saying you guys talked me into it."

Sam nodded amiably as he sat down with his own fifth of dinner. "Always glad to share the recriminations."

"I knew I could count on you."

"Hey, any new info about the President?"

All attention focused at once, humor forgotten.

"Not since this morning," Josh admitted.

Toby sighed. "What is the man waiting for? He's been home a day and a half already." He ignored the resulting snickers. "Can we get this over with? Bad enough that I have to spend the day around you characters; I really don't want to ruin my evening as well."

"We aim to please." Josh popped the tab on a soda can. "May I say that I'm gaining a new respect for hotel managers. I spent hours trying to place the balance of our new boarders where they'd be the hell out of our way without it looking like we *wanted* them the hell out of our way."

"One of your many questionable talents," Mandy assured him coyly.

"*You* try striking a balance between scattering them like so many land-mines all over the place, or else concentrating them like a nucleus of dissension in one spot. Either way, they just keep turning up everywhere you look. I'm tempted to draw a comparison with mushrooms: ugly and useless." He helped himself to a second cheese-dripping wedge. "So, did anyone *else* have an interesting day they'd like to talk about?" He did have the grace to ask before taking a bite and filling his mouth beyond coherence.

"*Interesting* doesn't *begin* to cover it," CJ said with velvet hardness, the first time she'd spoken since her arrival. "I feel like I'm training my own replacement."

"Seconded," Sam put in, scrubbing a napkin across his palms.

"I had to stand beside my own desk and listen to *his* advice. I introduced him at the press conference and then just stood to one side while he stumbled through it. I don't know which of us the cameras watched more." She threw down her well-gnawed crust remnant in frustration. And then nodded reluctantly. "But I'll say this much: Robert was reasonably decent about it *most* of the time. He might make a passable Press Secretary in the end."

Mandy looked less sarcastic and more thoughtful. "So if it does come to that, at least he's been trained right, huh?"

CJ wasn't smiling at all. "Damned right." She knocked back her diet cola as though wishing it was something a lot stronger.

"That's the proper spirit, people," Josh said, sounding a bit *too* much like the chairman of the board.

"But not the prevailing one," Toby ground out. Of the five, he was always the last to really kick back. "How Hoynes could bring himself to read a speech written by his own staff is further endorsement of his low standards and lower scruples. This guy Franco is even worse with punctuation than Sam."

"The listeners can't *tell*," Mandy said in as close to a pacifying tone as she was capable, before Sam could retaliate. Although she still spared him a smirk.

Toby shot her a look of disgust. "Is there a unified determination in these halls against striving for quality? Anything worth doing is worth doing right. And that's only a prelude to the actual content. No excellence of grammar could help there. It's inconceivable that he hasn't been laughed right out of office before this."

Josh endeavored to bring the topic back on track. "What's your personal take on their basic attitudes?"

Sam offered his two cents. "Before today I'd have said you couldn't find anyone more arrogant than Mandy - " She whirled on him and he hastily regrouped. "I mean - than Hoynes himself. But his staffers are getting just as bad as he is. Although I did reap a lot of personal pleasure at the prevalent confusion. It's *fun* messing with people's preconceptions this way. They've been knocked completely off-kilter by us actually being nice to them rather than fighting every inch."

"If nothing else, we just might be teaching them some manners," said Toby, not that he thought it likely. "That'll be a miracle in itself."

"And maybe they'll have a little more respect for what we go through around here," CJ wondered just a bit hopefully.

"And *maybe* Hoynes will stop wishing that the President takes a turn for the worse," Sam countered with cutting disbelief.

Josh snorted. "Not in our lifetime. In the interim, keep those crib notes up to date and out of sight. Here's hoping we can use them someday." Several snickers agreed with him. "And be sure to include any *other* ripples in the water that you happen across. If someone else around here thinks he, she, it or they can take advantage of the President's incapacitation, we'd better find out before the President or Hoynes does." He seemed to be settling into his leadership role rather well after all.

Mandy rose and stretched her cramped neck muscles. "*I'd* like to take advantage of it by wishing that *Hoynes* took a turn for the worse."

CJ grinned at that. "If anything should happen to our VP anytime soon, I promise never to mention this conversation to the police."

"Wait a minute!" Again, Mandy's sudden urgency riveted all eyes. "Speaking of police, we've been assuming all this time that the limo wreck was a simple accident. Do you suppose it's just possible that Hoynes *arranged* it? I mean, surely he'd be *able* to, and who in this world could possibly have a better motive?"

Silent disbelief greeted her. And Mandy did not take disbelief in her ideas calmly.

"I'm serious! The car driver could have been in on it from the start. After all, it's a minor miracle the President survived at all."

Four heads turned to each other. Weighing her words carefully.

"You've *got* to cut back on those mysteries of yours," CJ advised at last in a tolerant voice.

Mandy just folded her arms and glared.

"As if we need any further reasons not to trust Hoynes right now," Toby said blandly.

"Besides," Sam contributed, "the Secret Service must be on it. If they don't look at *him* first, there's something big-time wrong with their training methods."

Mandy fumed. "It's a perfectly valid theory -!"

"You can put away your magnifying glass, Jessica Fletcher," Josh told her. "We're not paying you to look for suspects."

"Problem-solving sharpens the mind," she stated through gritted teeth. "Something *you* could do well to remember."

Josh opened his mouth to retort, but CJ cut him off at the pass. "Can we *possibly* leave this argument for tomorrow? *Thank* you."

The others stood as well. "Well, one war council down," Toby summarized wearily. "Any guesses how many this is going to take before we can drive the invaders off our turf?"

"The fewer, the better." Sam gathered up the garbage from supper. "If we're going to keep our powwows quiet, I can't submit any of these receipts."

Josh came about at the last moment before anyone could open the closet door. "Oh, one more thing: Leo has a message for you-all."

Mandy winced at his butchered attempt at a Southern drawl. "No one's accent is *that* bad."

Toby's eyebrows rose noticeably. "Congratulations, Josh. You have finally been promoted to the Internal Courier Service."

"I prefer to think of myself as a field officer carrying orders from the colonel, thanks." The Deputy Chief of Staff cleared his throat. "Quote: At the appointed time, the senior staff is to hang back and let the lower ranks have a go. Unquote."

Four faces frowned at each other.

"Translation?" CJ asked first.

Josh shrugged. "No idea. But no doubt it'll make sense eventually, when the right moment comes - which I'm betting will be too late to do us much good."

*****


	12. And the World Stood Still 12

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

Tuesday, 9:20 A.M.

Day Four of the Bartlet Convalescence (most of his staff tended to think of it in terms of capital letters) got off on only a slightly better foot than Day Three. Hoynes made his grand entrance again, with the same inflated retinue, and must have fumed at the lack of response he received *this* time. Leo was ordered - commanded, compelled - to summon his senior people and account for the previous day's accomplishments and the current's day's requirements. When one is accustomed to being treated as a near-equal by the President of the United States, it can be very hard to accept patronizing from anyone else, but somehow the staff pulled it off without a full-fledged uprising.

If anything, frustration weighed heaviest on the Chief of Staff himself, since he was clearly expected to *not* get involved in any way with the training (in reality, turnover) process, but rather to personally assist a substitute who firmly believed he could manage alone. The Vice-President might as well have announced out loud that he didn't want any resistance to be coordinated behind his back. *Divide and conquer* has retained a lot of its truth over the centuries.

When the meeting ended, Toby broke from the starting gate first and strode out the door of the Oval Office as though he could not get away fast enough. CJ joined him in the lead position, fell into stride and half-whispered, "Would it be possible for anyone to look more bored than the VP just did?"

"Not without an Oscar nomination." Toby's self-control sounded definitely frayed.

"Leo's sure got my sympathy."

"He's up for *sainthood* in my books," the Communications Director rumbled, just as quietly and as sincerely. "Name one thing worse than being forced to follow Hoynes around so that he can keep an eye on you."

"How does Leo manage to say sane all day? By plotting his own revolution?"

"I for one wouldn't blame him at all."

Mandy was hard on their heels, helping to block the not-so-wide corridor so that none of the Vice-President's staff could advance close enough to overhear. "I plan to smuggle a movie in to him later. Either of you seen 'The Full Monty'?"

Neither Toby nor CJ broke stride - that was a practiced skill in these halls - but both still turned to stare at her in disbelief.

"What?" their political consultant asked, and neither could tell if she was serious or not. "You have a better recommendation? Something nice and violent, maybe? Or how about one of those mysteries nobody else around here seems to appreciate but me?"

The Press Secretary shook her head. "You'd *better* be kidding."

Further words died as they reached the more open communications bullpen, where Josh had been forced to place a good few of their unwelcome visitors, rendering closed ranks and private conversations impossible. Toby paused at the doorway to his office, invited Franco to precede him inside with false graciousness, and then instead of entering himself he leaned against the frame, for no apparent reason other than to observe his department at work for a moment - and to put off resuming his own. Tired of being watched all the time by someone she dared not trust, CJ decided to linger for a few moments with a true friend, ignoring Robert on her left. That guy seemed eager to get back on the job and reluctant (under orders, no doubt) to let his "coach" out of his sight, so he moved a few steps to one side, casting frequent uncomfortable glances her way. Mandy caught the same loitering mood and pulled up at Toby's other hand. This was no place to express personal opinions not intended for general knowledge, but it felt good to share a bit of fellowship, even in silence.

A silence she naturally chose not to preserve. "You know, I can't remember any other office I've ever worked in where the general atmosphere has ever had such an adverse effect on employee attitudes."

Toby didn't spare her a glance. "Glad to contribute to the experiment."

CJ nudged him from the other side. "That might even be a legitimate excuse. Think what some scientists spend on research."

Josh came along bare seconds later, heading for his own office around the corner. He braked with a comical flair and stared at them. "What is this, sunbathing time?"

"Since when do federal employees need an excuse to loaf?" Sam asked brightly, seizing his chance to join them in a brief escape from their indirect oppression.

"Since *this* federal employee is being held responsible for your work level - or lack of same." The Deputy Chief of Staff was at his wittiest today, but not even Mandy objected. They'd all had their fill of tiptoeing around Hoynes' staff, wanted to have their old jobs and their familiar repertoire back, and didn't much care right now what anyone else thought about it. They were *expected* to conspire anyway, so let their undeclared enemies draw whatever conclusions they chose.

Certainly Sam wasn't impressed by Josh's feeble attempt to keep up the charade. "You know, for all our responsibility and the impact attached to most of our decisions, we've always tried to have at least *some* fun at work - a feature sadly missing of late."

"We could hold an office-wide poker tournament," Mandy suggested with exaggerated co-operation.

"Oh, great way to ruin our best method of relaxa - "

CJ suddenly flung out both arms like a school crossing guard, holding her companions back from some as-yet-unidentified danger. They all turned to her in amazement.

She wasn't looking at them. "Uh... remember Leo's rather cryptic message last night?"

They all followed her gaze - and solidified just as she had.

The Press Secretary's eyes were wide. "I think our mystery has been solved."

"Good morning, everyone!"

At *that* voice every other head in the open area whipped about, and anyone else within earshot popped around corners like so many groundhogs.

Never an especially tall or physically imposing man despite his title, Jed Bartlet looked positively frail today, due mostly to the reduced height and blatant infirmity of being confined to a wheelchair. A white splint on his left arm and hand contrasted sharply against the medium blue pajamas and dark blue dressing-gown; a white headband emphasized the pallor of his bruised face; a blanket covered him from the waist down, hiding the cast on his right leg that they all knew was there. At least the oxygen tube was gone, though not the evident discomfort. He sat with a distinct list to port, favoring his battered vertebrae and broken ribs.

But he was alive, and awake, and *here!*

There was one single second of amazed stillness - not even a phone dared ring. And then almost everybody surged forward like a burst dam of sheer delight.

"Mr. President!"

"You're up!"

"This is wonderful!"

"How are you, sir?"

"Oh, it's great to see you!"

"Welcome back, sir!"

"We've been so worried!"

Excited employees crowded around, male and female alike, completely ignoring Charlie who stood right behind the chair, surrounding their Commander-in-Chief with joy and relief, shifting constantly to get closer and see better without crowding him too much.

The President was grinning broadly as he fended off the barrage of voices and forest of hands coming at him from all sides. "Take it easy! I haven't been subjected to such an inquisition since the campaign!"

The questions died down, but not the congratulations on his fast-improving health.

"Man, good thing I didn't break my *right* arm - that would seriously interfere with all these handshakes."

Laughter rolled through the milling throng.

"You know, I can't get used to everybody towering over me like this. Charlie, see if you can track down some kind of booster seat for the future. Then everyone can look *up* to me again."

More laughter.

"I just wanted to visit and see how my faithful subjects are doing. I mean, not that I don't trust you or anything. But you know me: I'm a great worrier. Although I can't imagine *why*. After all, this is only the White House."

Reassurances poured in that business was fine.

"Besides, it's awfully boring upstairs with nothing to do but lie around and watch TV. Great way to rot the mind. I'm glad *you're* having fun, at least!"

Multiple voices insisted they were working hard and enjoying it.

"Now I imagine some of you are pretty mad at me right now. I promise you that I will take full responsibility for upsetting your schedule over the last few days."

Howls of protest refused to let him accept any such blame.

"But seriously..." And now his smile faded. "I can't tell you how sorry I am to have slept through my arrival here on Sunday. I've been told about it. And I'll never be able to fully express my gratitude to you all. I don't know what I've done to earn such wonderful support; but I do promise never to lose it."

That simple sincerity left them all content to just stand around him in silence, proud and smiling and - quite a few - blinking back tears.

Unnoticed, Charlie turned aside to clear his throat, a low and innocent sound... drowned out almost at once by the President's sudden, harsh cough.

Everyone else noticed *that*. And every soul among them froze.

Head lowered, Bartlet registered on the immediate, tension-packed silence (no one could possibly miss it) and, fighting himself for control, finally looked up again at the frightened faces on all sides. And reinstated that charming smile of his.

"Oh, will everybody please relax? I'm fine."

This time he got no response at all. Happiness had fled utterly before consuming concern. All at once no one could see past the chair, the bruises and bandages, and the weakness.

He *wasn't* fine, and after that first euphoria they couldn't pretend that he was.

It was at this point that the President happened to find a gap in the press of bodies all around him, and what he glimpsed through it captured his attention. "Uh, excuse me a minute." He gestured at those in his way and they at once granted a wider angle.

Josh, C.J, Toby, Mandy and Sam stood in a row against the far wall, silently watching the knot of employees that hid their leader from sight - until now. Hanging back at this appointed time, and letting the lower ranks have a go.

After all, they saw far more of their Chief Executive than the average backstage worker around here. It was only fair to grant such usually unnoticed and anonymous employees this rare and prized opportunity to be near the President as well, to speak directly to him, to be addressed in turn. The senior staff was guaranteed that privilege on a regular basis.

Which also meant that they personally knew him better... and that as a result they personally cared for him even more.

Which further meant that they should not be denied the chance to express their care along with everyone else.

"Hey, guys, come on over! What, you think I'm contagious or something?"

The five obeyed at once. Each of them wanting very much to push past the others and judge the President's health for him- or herself, Leo's order notwithstanding.

None of them missed the clear signs of weakness and pain.

Still, his disposition could not have sounded more natural. More reassuring.

Remaining in the background, despite this general invitation, were a number of employees from that *other* office. None of who made a move to join the celebration. Silent, uncomfortable, they clearly felt that they did not belong - not here, not now.

Mandy spoke first, smiling in her offhanded style. "We just thought you were being mobbed enough for one day, sir."

"Do I look *that* fragile to you?" No one answered. "Well, I'm *not*. All members of the Bartlet Fan Club are more than welcome."

Josh accepted the opening. "Leaves me out; I'm afraid I'm not a card-carrying member of that society."

"Really? Well, I *might* be able to forgive you this time, seeing as I still haven't got around to issuing them yet." The President's humor was definitely intact.

"Oh, good," Toby interposed, actually smiling. "I've been meaning to mention it to you. I assumed mine was lost in the mail."

*"JED!"*

Heads turned fast in jolting surprise. Only a close family member would dare address their Commander-in-Chief thus; not even Leo, with forty years of friendship, was ever heard to take such a liberty. And only one such family member could be here now. The President did not even bother to look around; he just rolled his eyes as the crowd behind him parted like the Red Sea before the approach of Moses.

And this newcomer looked like she wielded that same holy might. Or wished she did.

"I turn my back for one minute..." Abigail Bartlet stormed over, assumed an aggressive stance with hands on hips, and glared down at his innocent expression. Then she spun on his personal aide. "Charlie, you're going to hear from me. *You* should know better."

The young man looked appropriately subdued, if not entirely contrite. Few people indeed could talk this Chief Executive out of anything.

Generally, his beloved wife was one person who *could*. Hence Bartlet's obvious departure from the Residence without informing her.

The President sighed tolerantly. "I'm sure I have a *Get-out-of-jail-free* card here someplace," and he began searching for pockets, as if pajamas and dressing-gowns came with as many as his suits did. Several spectators couldn't prevent a titter or two.

The First Lady folded her arms, looking more intimidating by the moment. "There's a little thing called *recuperation*. And you are going to stay put and avail yourself of it if I have to tie you down. You won't heal otherwise."

Her husband looked away. "Abbey..."

She didn't move, as if waiting for something. Everyone else waited as well, though for exactly what they weren't sure. It was quite a treat to observe their First Couple like this, but the undercurrents of the President's health did steal some of the shine...

At last Bartlet exhaled and lowered his head into his right hand. And suddenly all present saw just how weary he was despite his best efforts to hide it from them.

"All right. Fine. Bully your helpless patient. I'll go quietly."

Charlie took his cue from the First Lady's imperative head-jerk towards the exit, and started to ease the wheelchair around. The crowd parted again, silent and grave.

"Feel better, sir," Mandy called after them. "And that's as close to an order as we'll ever have the chance to give *you*."

At that, the President roused himself anew. He never was one to resist a joke. "I'll be back before you know it. That is, unless I decide that I like all this pampering even more!"

And so he left a fresh ripple of amusement in his wake, which provided a much better memory than his exhausted paleness.

CJ took her life in her hands, so to speak, and hastened after as no one else here presumed to do. "Mrs. Bartlet?" she asked quietly.

Abbey turned back, looking up at the tall Press Secretary with eyebrows raised.

Despite all the humor and all the reassurances, some people simply had to know the hard truth. "How is he doing - *really?*"

Even with her low volume, someone else heard. "I never did like being talked about in the third person as though I wasn't even present," the President groused from a length or two ahead. He tried to twist around, which the chair's support and his taped ribs did not permit. "You don't think I can answer for myself?"

His Press Secretary couldn't stop her smile this time. "Respectfully, sir," she replied at a normal level, "I know I won't get an *unbiased* answer from you right now."

Traveling steadily away against his will, Bartlet just sighed and shook his head.

So did Abbey, watching him with far more fondness than that of a detached doctor for a mere patient. "You can tell everyone that he's doing better than you'd ever dare expect after injuries like that - but not as well as he *thinks* he is."

"Well, then, I rest my case." And CJ smiled wider in no little relief.

The First Lady grinned as well. "Don't worry. I'll have him back to work in no time." And she followed her husband out of the room.

Reluctantly, the regular staff turned away to resume their normal operations. The general atmosphere, however, had lightened a great deal.

The Vice-President's friends, whose moods had *not* improved, stirred from their conspicuous stance on the sidelines and tried to blend in again, as though their supposed full cooperation had not just been exposed for the parlor game it was.

Sam wandered over to where CJ was staring thoughtfully after the First Couple's progress down the hall, not yet out of sight.

"Now that just might qualify as the best news of all," the Deputy Communications Director suggested, for her ears only.

She nodded once, her focus still on the departing procession. "It might."

"But you know something else?" Sam added. "I think it was also a pretty impressive demonstration of staff loyalty for the benefit of a certain VP. *His* fan club as well."

After a moment CJ's expression shifted to even more wholehearted agreement, and she nodded again, more emphatically this time. "It was."

*****


	13. And the World Stood Still 13

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

Even Presidents had to break for meals, so certainly anyone further down the ladder was constrained to do the same. Exactly when the tradition started has been lost in American antiquity, but as a rule food was not allowed in the Oval Office, the President's personal coffee and a water pitcher being the sole exceptions. Briefings of any length where beverages and munchies might be served were always scheduled for some boardroom, even if the Chief Executive found this less convenient. So far at least, no Chief Executive had formally complained.

One advantage to this, besides keeping the Presidential Seal free from crumbs and stains, was to force the President to break for proper meals. Whether he returned to the Residence, chatted with a confidant, entertained an official visitor or just snacked alone someplace, he left his desk, its phone and its workload to do so. Definitely healthier.

All this to say that John Hoynes encountered far more resistance than he'd run into on any other subject yet when he requested that his lunch be served right at the President's desk. Apparently this article was *not* open for amendment. Which forced him to go elsewhere, and since the Residence was off-limits and no other public meeting or private rendezvous had been arranged, he resigned himself to ordering a mere sandwich and finding a quiet corner on his own. Certainly the Vice-President was above joining the line at the cafeteria.

An added nuisance, from *his* point of view at least, was that such short internal trips were not deemed to merit a Secret Service escort... thereby depriving him of the most prevalent symbol to his promotion. Some people just could not grasp the importance of this.

In any event, he marched back to "his" Office as soon as possible. Reveling in *that* great distinction, at least.

Only to find that it was not empty.

At the sight of someone *else* seated behind that desk he braked dead.

Perfectly cast by sunlight through ceiling-high windows, the profile was rather unmistakable, never mind the hubris on the part of *anyone* else at being in that particular spot.

"Mr. President!"

The *real* occupant of this office looked around. "John."

They were face to face at last.

Slowly, the Vice-President approached. Having little choice. Feeling positively cheated. And hurt, and angry. That had been *his* spot only minutes ago.

Could the presidential hiatus be over *already*?

He hadn't had two full days yet. This wasn't fair!

As he got closer, he could see the dressing-gown, the splint and bandages, the pallor and bruises. And then he saw the wheelchair.

The leather seat of supreme authority had been moved aside to make room for Bartlet's currently required method of locomotion.

Hoynes glanced around, but there was no one else present - not even Charlie Young. If the President could already propel himself around unaided, then his full recovery and return to duty would not be long away.

Well, so much for the new and improved administration. DAMN!

The Vice-President managed not to let any of these less-than-supportive thoughts show. He really had no choice. He just walked up to the desk's front edge and silently stood there, his clenched fists out of sight. As he'd always had to do in the past - before yesterday.

And, somehow, *un*clenched his jaw. No point now in raging over what could not be, despite all his fervent wishing. "Well, welcome back, sir."

Bartlet smiled wanly. Was that because he knew just how sincere his subordinate was *not?*

Or, perhaps he didn't feel so well after all...

"No, John, this is just a moment of nostalgia. I know I'm not up to the workload yet." He leaned back - much the way Hoynes himself had on his first arrival, yet without any arrogance at all. When you really possess such power, you don't have to flaunt it. "Besides, this chair is a bit too low. I feel like my entire perspective of the world has changed somehow."

Perhaps it was the wheelchair itself, and all it represented in terms of illness and injury, rather than just the reduced height. When a person can do almost nothing without aid, then just about every aspect of life enters a whole new light.

Reassured, somewhat, that his own cherished time in that leather seat might not be over just yet after all, the Vice-President managed to accept his old niche without too much ill grace. "How are you feeling?"

"Don't ask." With some effort Bartlet used his good hand to carefully place his splinted arm on the desktop, and leaned forward on both. He looked tired, and pale, which only showed off the dark bruise half-encircling his left eye and the red abrasion across his right cheekbone to full effect. The white gauze headband helped hold his rumpled hair in check. Still, his eyes seemed clear enough.

Hoynes smiled despite himself. "If you don't mind my saying, sir, I'm reminded of 'The Red Badge of Courage'."

The President touched his wrapped forehead at that thought, and flickered a grin. "Well, I feel like I've been through the wars, I can tell you. And not just because of that little contretemps with the limo, either. If my doctor *and* my wife didn't insist so much that all these drugs do help the healing process, I'd never go near 'em."

He sounded utterly *himself*; such a personal rebellion was typical of his character. And yet, there *might* have been a quaver in his tone that hinted at the uncontrolled pain beneath.

A heavy sigh confirmed this. "It's so frustrating when you need help all the time. I can't wait until my left arm is strong enough to do its full share of the work."

"I imagine." A neutral enough comment that masked rising irritation. How dare the President keep him standing like this?

Bartlet looked aside, then back again. "Oh, speaking of which: John, could you just move me around here, please?"

For one eternal heartbeat the Vice-President was sorely tempted to refuse. Fortunately, his sense of self-preservation reasserted itself in time. "Sure."

He stepped behind the desk and took his position at the chair's back. Incensed by this deceptively simple request, resenting the menial role more deeply with every second; it seemed to epitomize his position of political powerlessness and the obscurity of living in the presidential shadow. Both sets of knuckles grew white on the handgrips, and not because of the mild exertion required to make four rubber wheels roll across carpet.

Thinking... what?

"Funny thing," the President mused as his conveyance slowly came about, "I never noticed before how many sharp corners there are in this room." The handsomely-carved century-old "Resolute" desk had four hardwood points alone. He touched one idly in passing. "A person could fall against almost anything around here and half-kill himself."

Behind him, safely out of direct view, Hoynes' mouth tightened.

Oblivious, Bartlet continued to talk to himself. "Of course, in *my* case that would just about finish the job."

Knuckles *and* arms tensed even more. Evidence of fast-rising emotions.

"Good thing I've got a reliable source of propulsion, huh?"

It was as if the President knew exactly how the *Vice*-President thought and felt. How much he hated playing second fiddle. How much he wanted that leather chair for his own.

The scary thing is, the temptation did exist, undeniably, to take it.

By force. NOW.

Hoynes would be less than human to have never at least thought about it. Of course, he had never actually *considered* it.

Not before this moment.

And never before had the idea been so strong a siren call. Like a long-chained demon, beating furiously against the sole barrier left - the fear of legal prosecution. A barrier wearing thinner with each passing second.

Of course the Oval Office was exempt from official surveillance, both audio and video. No one could have any possible *factual* grounds to doubt the Vice-President's version of whatever might happen next.

It'd be so *easy*. Just one good shove in the right direction -

In Bartlet's current precarious health, a mere tap on the head could...

Hoynes wouldn't have to wait two and a half years more, and another four after that if the President won a second term - nor would he have to risk losing his own election to a fickle populous. He could have *everything*... without waiting any longer at all...

Did The Man possess ESP? Could he sense the very real threat right behind him, and that it was growing? Was his only hope to nip it in the bud?

Or was he, for reasons of his own, deliberately taunting the person with the greatest possible motive in the world into a murder attempt? If so, he had to have some kind of defense handy, just in case -

Or *was* he in fact completely unaware of this second dire threat to his existence in less than four days... at the hands of someone he trusted?

The man who would be President hesitated dangerously, teeth bared -

Before those riotous thoughts could come to a full boil, the moment broke. The President indicated where he wanted to be. Right in front of his desk, away from any convenient impact. "Here's fine."

And, again, reluctant, seething, Hoynes obeyed. Not at all certain within himself of what he would have decided in one more moment -

Of course, there was still time to consider it further. This badly-injured and virtually strengthless Chief Executive could hardly put up a fight...

"Thanks. Now put my real chair back, would you?"

This time the Vice-President paused to look his superior full in the face. Hardly believing that such a degrading task had been asked of him. But Bartlet could not have appeared more innocent of any deliberate slight, watching him calmly.

It's hard to contemplate assault when your helpless and unsuspecting victim is smiling at you. Besides, killing the U.S. President takes a level of either fury or insanity that few indeed are capable of, thanks be to God.

So, yet again, Hoynes finally, silently yielded to his survival instinct rather than his pride, and shoved the large leather chair - not his *yet* - back where it belonged.

The Vice-President of the United States shifting furniture! He could almost make a case for presidential delusions right now.

What next? Carpet-cleaning? And how should he respond *then?*

Capitulate - or NOT?

And if not...

Hoynes straightened and waited, standing as before. There still hadn't been, nor would there likely be, an invitation to -

"Have a seat."

That caught him completely off-guard. His whole expression changed. Sit? In THIS chair? NOW?

Bartlet smiled a bit wider. "Go on. You have to get used to it anyway."

The Vice-President hesitated again, this time in amazement. Wondering if it could be some new kind of trick. But as the silence stretched out and his boss patiently waited, at last he reached out to swivel the chair towards him, and slowly descended into it.

This was not the same experience as the morning before, where he sauntered in and claimed it as his right when all of them knew it was not. This was more like being presented with it willingly by his predecessor: both exalting and humbling at the same time.

Having made himself comfortable, Hoynes finally had to look up again and meet the eye of said predecessor - who would also succeed him again before long.

And, in some unfathomable way the President, on the receiving side of his own desk, in a wheelchair and pajamas and bandages and too weak to even stand, still maintained that serene air of supreme authority. Another man may be occupying his virtual throne right now, but *he* remained very much the Commander-in-Chief of this great nation. Never in doubt.

How did he *do* that?

"I'm glad we have this chance to chat, John." Bartlet spoke now with quiet import. "You and I don't talk much these days, and we both know why. Which is really too bad. But never mind that now. There are a few things I want to discuss."

Ah, finally - the anticipated sermon about just how the *Acting* President was expected to handle this great responsibility. Did anyone honestly believe such *advice* would in fact be taken? This was HIS show now, and no one was going to tell him how to run it.

Not even President Josiah Bartlet himself.

"Constitutionally, *and* personally, I can't do without your help here. You know that. And I'm giving you my vote of confidence right now that you're up to it. But be warned: this job is gonna test your utmost abilities."

And his trustworthiness as well. But that could hardly be said aloud.

"That chair, and the person sitting in it, is the focus of the world. There's no escape from its envied influence or its awesome responsibility. Your prominence, and your risk, will increase as a result."

Hoynes didn't quite yawn, despite the simplicity of all this. The President would have his say, and the *Vice*-President could afford to be generous and endure it since *he* was the one in that chair.

"All of us are relying on you as the current custodian of the nation's future. And make no mistake: one day's decision may be just as vital as four whole years of choices, especially in a crisis. I don't want you to feel shortchanged because you don't have a full term ahead. Believe me, a day in this office would terrify and paralyze almost anyone. A short future can be every bit as important as a long one."

Hoynes nodded willingly enough. The concept was valid and thought-provoking. It also underscored the potential impact of his substitution, and made him feel less like a temporary stopgap measure that wasn't especially wanted or needed.

"People will certainly compare you to me - just as every other President is compared and contrasted to his predecessors. That's inevitable. And every President is still different, and every President has had to answer accordingly. You won't be able to just fall back on *my* policies here: you're going to have to make it largely on your own."

Hoynes looked more than slightly stunned at this - that he was not supposed to pretend to be Jed Bartlet the Second or some similar clone-like figurehead, and simply maintain the status quo. That he actually had *permission* to put his personal stamp on the next few weeks.

"You know as well as I do that public opinion is absolutely essential. Don't ignore it even for a short time, just because you don't expect to be here too long. This Office can go to your head - and I speak from direct experience on that. You won't want to endanger your career afterwards because some people have longer memories than elephants."

Every politician lived with that basic truth. Still, any adverse publicity could stain *both* of them for a long and unpleasant time. A reminder didn't hurt.

"Don't hesitate to rely on the people around you. It's not a sign of weakness or capitulation; you're making use of some very valuable resources at hand. When things go wrong, they can help. Hear them out, and then make your best call. That's what's expected, not a miracle cure. If it's the fault of others, don't rub their noses in it *too* much, or they'll be less inclined to work towards a solution or to offer input again later. And if the fault is yours, the staff *and* the public will know it no matter what you do. I can't help you there; no one can. The only safe path is just to admit it, learn from it, and move on."

This did sound a bit like Elementary Political Science 101, to be disregarded at greatest peril. Every politician knew it cold. But that didn't dilute its truth.

And not only that: the President did not sound condescending at all.

"You know, this is some opportunity you've got, John. Sure wish *I'd* had one like it. Neither Congress nor the Senate can prepare a man for the Oval Office. You have to learn it the hard way, by trial and error. Quite a few Vice-Presidents inherited it unexpectedly, and a couple others won their own elections, but that didn't train them any better. None of them ever got the chance to try running the White House on their own, even for a little while, before they had to do it for real. Well, today we're launching the exception to the rule. It's entirely possible that that chair will be fully *yours* one day. Consider this a dress rehearsal."

Several seconds ticked quietly past, where Hoynes could find no words at all. All of the anticipated pressure to conform, to do nothing untoward or individual, had not materialized. All of his carefully prepared and rehearsed resistance had to be scrapped, forcing him to rethink his whole campaign.

Now Bartlet relaxed and leaned back, his advisory role finished. "So, fill your boots. Take the ball and run with it. I want to stay in the loop, because if I *don't* I'll go insane. But I won't interfere in any way, shape or form - not until I'm certified to return."

And then he grinned. "Unless you ask my opinion, of course. *Then* you'll get it with both barrels."

Which was a far better bargain than Hoynes had ever expected. And far less contemptuous orders than he'd dared hope for. Perhaps - just perhaps - he wasn't permanently cast in the role of the villain in this democratic melodrama after all.

He still had every intention of some day becoming President in fact. Almost all VPs shared that dream. But *they'd* never personally held the reins of power during their predecessors' tenure, never been able to learn first-hand, to feel the influences and the pressures, to experiment, to make a *real* difference, while a more experienced man watched from the sidelines with advice and encouragement and assistance...

*This* Vice-President did not plan to waste such a big break. He would learn as much as he possibly could, make himself the very best candidate for this job's future openings... and when his own administration finally began - whenever that might be - he would know precisely how to handle it *right*.

Because the man he so envied was willing to help him, not judge him.

"Thank you very much, Mr. President." And for most of the last year and a half John Hoynes had gone out of his way to deny Jed Bartlet his deserved title at every safe chance. "I can't promise to be great at this, but I *can* promise to give it my very best shot."

The President nodded, as if he'd had no doubt. "I'll be perfectly happy with that."

What precisely motivated Hoynes to make this next move, even *he* wasn't sure. But after a pause for further reflection the young Vice-President rose from that plush leather chair, circled the desk, and extended a hand to his older, wiser Chief Executive in heartfelt gratitude.

Who smiled and took it firmly, despite his obvious aches and weariness.

When was the last time these two had indulged in such a personal formality? Certainly it would have been even longer since they used it as an expression of genuine friendship. Politics has an ugly tendency of driving friends and allies apart.

But here, now, the Vice-President seemed to be taking his own oath of office. A pledge, accepting this great trust with full comprehension for what it required of him, and committed to doing it properly.

Had the President been trying to scare him into behaving? Or to revitalize whatever embers of honest public service Hoynes' fierce ambitions had not completely smothered? Whichever it may be, the strategy just might have worked well enough to set them both firmly on the same side of the fence for the first time in a very long while.

*****


	14. And the World Stood Still 14

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

Reception outside the Oval Office was quiet, and vacant save for one person toiling quietly along as usual. When the door on her left opened, Mrs. Landingham stopped working and looked up, which she always did. And reminded herself just how to address the man emerging, which after her years of experience she almost *never* had to do.

For a long moment, no one appeared. Strange; the Vice-President might not like opening his own doors, but when he was alone in a room he had no alternative, in which case he usually made somewhat of a production out of it. So why this pause -

Who did finally exit was *not* the Vice-President... at least, not alone as she had thought him to be, and not even first as one would have expected the man to insist.

And to be honest, for another long moment she didn't even notice him.

After one silent heartbeat she rose to her feet, as Hoynes pushed the wheelchair across the threshold and over to her desk.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President."

As always, her voice was level and her expression reserved. But did the glint from her spectacles hide a different glint in her eyes?

"Good to see you, Mrs. Landingham," Bartlet replied in the same undemonstrative tone - for his first sentence only. This President took an almost manic delight in throwing people curveballs, and those who knew him best learned to field them regularly. "What's this I hear about you serving coffee? I couldn't believe my ears!"

Strange first words for two people who had worked so closely together for more than a year, in particular when one had spent much of the last four days fearing for the other's welfare. It spoke eloquently of their well-knit cooperation and personal professional association.

And, incidentally, it also told the Vice-President that he had abused his privilege by treating her as his private coffee-maker. But enough of that for now.

Mrs. Landingham's deadpan stability was as much of a byword throughout the White House as the President's mercurial good humor. He hadn't succeeded in catching her out yet. "That's hardly against House rules, sir."

He looked amazed and offended at the same time. "You never serve *me* coffee."

"I was just trying to make the Vice-President feel welcome." She did not neglect to give Hoynes a respectful nod before gazing silently back down at her *real* boss.

Thinking... what?

Evaluating the extent of his condition? Enjoying her superior height for a change? Hiding her discomfort at seeing him in pajamas? Masking her concern for his pale infirmity?

Whatever weakness he felt, he refused to admit. "Okay, but don't overdo it - or else when I come back to throw him out he'll want to take you with him!"

She couldn't prevent a nervous glance at the Vice-President this time; that crack might all too easily be taken for a cutting reminder of Hoynes' temporary status. But surprisingly enough, their stand-in's smile did not have the strained edge, the subtle resentment that all presidential staffers well knew. Perhaps he had decided to put aside his anti-Bartlet sentiments for awhile. Perhaps miracles did happen after all.

The Vice-President's words seemed quite sincere as well. "Don't tempt me."

The President glanced up and back as far as he could. "Don't even *think* about it. No way I can run this place without her."

Mrs. Landingham's eyebrows rose. Their formal, mutually dependent relationship rarely ever produced compliments.

Bartlet's eyes twinkled in triumph; he hadn't missed her reaction, subtle though it was. But he knew better than to allude directly to it. "So, what all is happening around here?"

Her eyes twinkled in retaliation. "Oh, I'm afraid you're not cleared for that information at this time, Mr. President."

Hoynes couldn't prevent a snicker, especially at the stunned posture of the man seated before him - apparent even from behind. Not many people dared to volley a Jed Bartlet curveball straight back where it came from; even fewer had the gumption to throw their own.

The President's mouth hung open. "I'm *not?*" He tried to make sense of that totally unexpected line. "I don't believe this, either! Whose brilliant idea was that?"

His secretary could not have looked less impressed by such a demand. "You are not yet well enough to expend your energies on national policy, sir."

Before her boss could come up with some other protest, Hoynes intervened. "All right; how about updating *me*, at least?" Which, with Bartlet sitting right there, would of course accomplish the very same thing. He could be reminded of this debt some other time.

Mrs. Landingham turned that identical expression on *him*. Imperturbable. "Oh, I'm afraid you're not cleared to it either, Mr. Vice-President."

If he'd been surprised by the President's friendly candor earlier, he was astounded by the President's secretary's calm resistance now. "You're kidding." He was the *acting* President, in full accordance with the Constitution. How could that *not* clear him?

Mrs. Landingham tipped her head a few degrees sideways, as though giving his comment careful consideration. "Not usually, sir."

This *had* to be a joke, no matter how dead serious she persisted in behaving. "Then what does it take to *get* clearance with you?"

She answered without hesitation. She always had the answer, regardless of the subject. "An oath of inauguration and a clean bill of health, I believe. Both of which neither of you currently possess."

The two men exchanged twin looks of pure disbelief.

Months of experience had still not convinced the President that he couldn't win an argument with this particular employee of his. Hope springs eternal. "Well, between the two of us we just about make up *both* of your qualifications, Mrs. Landingham, don't you think?" Not that they were really *hers* anyway.

And that was interesting: a direct reference of voluntary cooperation between the President and the *Vice*-President, virtually unheard-of ever since this administration began.

Whether the scales of decision tipped under Bartlet's thinly-disguised order, Hoynes' full endorsement, or the wonder of this executive solidarity, Mrs. Landingham appeared to yield ground - unprecedented in Oval Office memory. "You do have a point, sir. I'll see if we can't make an exception just this once." She sat down again, for the first time since her Commander-in-Chief's appearance, and reached for the appointment book.

The President sighed. She could carry the bluff further than he, primarily since he could never be quite sure she *was* bluffing. "Great - more bureaucracy." He hooked a thumb over one shoulder. "John, you'd better get back in there where it's safe."

Hoynes chuckled. "I'm going." He was glad to have an escape route from this woman's proven formidability. "Remind me never to get into a debate with you, Mrs. Landingham."

"I will, Mr. Vice-President," she promised him with a nod, perfectly businesslike. And then turned from the temporary boss to the permanent one. "Shall I call someone to attend you, Mr. President?"

"Nah, Charlie will be along eventually. No doubt he's searching high and low for his escaped prisoner right now. At least the Secret Service know how to obey without question." Bartlet grinned, settled a bit deeper into his chair, and folded his arms as best he could, splint and all. "Although it could be some time before he thinks of looking here, since this is the *last* place I'm supposed to be."

Mrs. Landingham studied him indulgently over her eyeglasses, much as a long-suffering mother might with a recalcitrant child.

"In the meantime," the President announced contentedly, "after more than a year of having the entire world watch every move *I* make, I'm going to savor this opportunity to sit back and watch *others* work for a change."

His secretary's eyes narrowed. "Oh, I won't have that, sir. There's far too much to do around here. I'll see you back to the Residence myself if I must."

He fixed those bright blue eyes on her, now icy rather than amused. "You most certainly will not."

She rose demurely. "I accept your challenge, Mr. President." And went straight to the back of his chair, and started pushing it towards the hall.

His voice rose, as it did only when he *really* meant what he said. "I'll thank you to DESIST, Mrs. Landingham!"

She didn't, unmoved by his authority or his vehemence. Effectively trapped in place and quite powerless even to stand up and dig in his heels, Bartlet twisted around as best he could, which wasn't much, and looked for his only source of aid present. "John - "

Hoynes was really smiling now. This almost beat out that earlier, positively treasonous moment in the Oval Office for the sense of sheer power he now held over his Chief Executive. And a lot less threatening for *both* of them. "Sorry, sir. I only just promised I wouldn't start a fight in this office, remember?"

That convenient excuse was not well received; those blue eyes chilled even more. "I'll have you BOTH know this is MUTINY!"

"If you say so, sir," Mrs. Landingham replied, not slowing down. "I myself would call it cooperating towards your full recovery."

"Oh, sure. Everyone in the House gang up on me when I can't defend myself." Much as he'd had to submit that morning to the dictates of his wife, the President slumped in his seat and grumbled, "It's getting so I can't go *anywhere!*" The lament of any famous face.

Watching them leave, the Vice-President shook his head and laughed quietly at the delightful interaction he'd just witnessed between two equally extraordinary people. And turned and walked back into the Oval Office - for all intents and purposes, the leader of the free world.

*****


	15. And the World Stood Still 15

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

"CJ?"

The Press Secretary's head jerked up from her desk. Enjoying a brief moment of solitude in her own office. Not expecting her assigned VP shadow back so soon. Not expecting anyone else to have either spare time or *unmonitored* time for social visits. And certainly not expecting *this* person to drop by.

"Hey, they let you out of your cage!"

Leo propped a hand against the door jam. "Yeah, things are looking up a bit." It was a very rare occasion indeed when the White House Chief of Staff had nothing to do - under *normal* circumstances. No doubt right now he wanted to revel a bit in his renewed liberty. "And I think the general surveillance thing might be easing as well."

CJ's eyebrows rose above her eyeglass frames. "Wonders never cease. What prompted this complete come-about? Or has *Hoynes* been replaced by an imposter?"

Leo didn't smile, clearly unwilling to trust their good fortune just yet. "I don't know - maybe an avenging angel dropped in on him during lunch. Anyway, let's not waste it, in case he switches back again."

She smirked. "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hoynes. It fits."

Leo glanced away tiredly. "You don't know the half of it."

CJ relaxed in her chair. "I'm glad you came by; I've got a bone to pick with you." He looked back, brows quirked. "You knew the President was coming around the offices this morning, and you didn't tell us."

"I *did* tell you. Or didn't Josh pass on my message in time?"

"Sure he did - like it made a lot of sense before the fact."

Now Leo allowed a grin. "And if I'd spelled it out point-blank, there would've been no surprise. My way was far more effective, don't you agree?"

At his guileless expression CJ had to laugh. "You definitely don't get out enough."

He feigned surprise. "You think?"

"Say, what's the latest on our executive patient? From what I heard recently he's really playing hard to control."

Leo rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that sounds right."

"Maybe things aren't all that bad after all," CJ said hopefully.

"At this rate he's going to suffer a relapse. I wish he'd listen to us *just once*."

"Why break the habits of an administration now?" she countered.

*"Touché."*

Then something different flared in Leo's vision. "Briefing in the Oval, eight tomorrow. Hoynes has arranged a little jurisprudence." And he gave her a knowing look.

She understood exactly what he meant, and her own gaze snapped sparks in reply. "About time. I wouldn't miss it."

Leo nodded shortly. "I never doubted. See you later; I've got some lost exercise to catch up on in these halls. I'm not used to all this freedom of movement anymore." He started to leave, then turned back for a final word. "Oh, and if you see Mandy before I do, tell her I appreciated the video."

That detail made CJ remove her glasses entirely in pure astonishment.

*****

The White House was well supplied with conference rooms of various sizes, and on an average day two or three of them might be needed at any given hour. One would figure that these conferences were of no small import to merit being held in such a setting. Toby knew the truth better than most, and sometimes felt that he spent more time seated in one such historically-decorated chamber listening to pointless debates than on any other single activity.

Of the same mind, designers had selected the boardroom chairs with an eye for *dis*comfort, so that those participants forced to sit through hours of inconsequential chatter would be less likely to doze off. And there were times when Toby heartily cursed that foresight. Enduring these endless meetings *awake* should qualify as "cruel and unusual punishment".

He sat beside Franco, his VP-assigned companion, across from two representatives of one more federal lobby group who were convinced that their pet legislation was the greatest thing since Internet on cable, and called upon his reputed composure to fight back a yawn.

The first official hadn't paused for breath, it seemed, in several minutes. "The White House was just warming up to our bill here, and suddenly now we've got the equivalent of a whole new administration to deal with!"

Toby did not shift in his place or alter his expression, and yet still managed to project a scathing contempt. "Well, on behalf of the President, I apologize. We'll try to make sure that his next brush with death is more accommodating to your schedules."

Few people could teach a lesson in manners faster than the White House Communications Director - which was probably why he ended up in these meetings so often.

The loudmouth backed down fast. "All right, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it quite like that." And, having thus been soundly reprimanded like a schoolchild rather than a senior executive with prestige to spare, he scrambled for firmer ground. "Say, how's he doing?"

After such flagrant disregard for his boss, Toby was not inclined to let himself be pacified. "Since, as you've pointed out, Congressman, the President's actual health doesn't impact upon your business here today, why bother to ask?"

"It *does* impact on us!" the second guy insisted. "We were just getting to know him, only to be hit with a totally new personality that we have no idea how to predict!"

Still Toby did not move to any perceptible degree. His quiet tone alone, despite its careful modulation, proclaimed his weary opinion of such high-handed self-importance in this building. "First off, I'm not impressed with the validity of your agenda - not if it's based solely upon your skill at predicting the policies of the President. Second, President Bartlet has never been *other* than unpredictable in his policies, which is one very strong reason why Democrats chose him as their presidential candidate, *and* why Americans voted him into the Oval Office. This is something you should be aware of and used to by now. So, gentlemen, it will greatly facilitate our time here once the truth sinks in that your forecasts won't be any more accurate whether you're dealing with President Bartlet or Vice-President Hoynes. I hate to disillusion you all so brutally, but this bill is just going to have to market itself on its own virtue."

An embarrassed silence descended while the officials traded uneasy glances.

Toby had, of course, been careful not to slam Hoynes in any perceivable fashion. That was not kosher in the *public* face of party politics, never mind Franco's silent evaluation of *private* party business. Besides, he had more important details on his mind than such standardized character assassination practices just now. He wanted to end this charade as soon as feasible and report on the results, which would not be quite as trivial as he had first supposed.

"Okay." The second official raised his palms as though begging for peace on the subject. "You've made your point. Let's move on. It's just that we sort of hoped - well, maybe you could give us *some* clue as to what kind of stance we might expect from the Vice-President on this? It'd go a long way towards reassuring our fellow - "

Toby expelled a martyr's sigh and closed his eyes as though in physical pain. "This is so transparent," he muttered, looking up again to spear his visitors with a cold glower. "I can't believe you're here on such a flimsy pretext. For your edification, we are fully aware of more than a few federal groups besides your good selves who are very anxious to test the revised chain of command in the White House for any potential weak spots, to which can then be applied some strategic pressure. Well, let me point out for your own welfare that both the President and the Vice-President take a rather dim view of anyone with designs to capitalize upon what, I will stress, only *appears* to be a executive upheaval."

He paused. No one dared fill the gap. Several seconds ticked by while the two representatives opposite just sat there and stared at him. Found out, told off and trimmed down to mere caricatures of what they thought themselves to be.

"Good. Now that we have cleared up the subterfuge issue, can we please get on with this? It's late, and I have a judicial hearing first thing tomorrow. A hearing which, unlike *this* conference, will actually tax my brain cells."

*****

Hard at work on her computer and concentrating, nevertheless Donna knew when her supervisor passed by. Papers on several desks ruffled in protest as he barreled through the bullpen at only slightly less than the speed of sound.

"Josh?" He didn't look, didn't reply, didn't stop, didn't even decelerate. That was nothing new for him, so she at once leaped up and set off in pursuit. "Josh!"

He still didn't glance her way. "Oh, what now?"

She endeavored to pull up alongside, but his pace didn't make it easy. "Josh, you haven't sat still for two solid days now! You're driving me crazy!"

"You mean you're not there already? Everyone else around here winged out long ago."

"I have a very stable personality," she declared confidently, and ignored his snort of disbelief. "One which, I might add, you are sorely trying right now."

He turned a blind corner at the same rapid stride, regardless of who might be coming the other way. "Then you can finally join the club of lucky individuals whose case Hoynes' people have been riding nonstop with no end in sight. I can't do a thing around here without one of *them* looming over my shoulder."

Donna finally drew up level enough to see his face and gauge his expression. "And of course it's your job to loom over their shoulders too, right?"

"Theirs and everyone else's. This situation breeds paranoia." Josh had shed his blazer at some earlier hour, and his tie blew back over one shoulder from the wind of his passage.

"Well, you can now calm down a *little*. The word is that Hoynes seems to have had a change of heart or something about reshaping the West Wing in his own image."

"You need a heart before you can change it," he sniped.

"I'd think *any* improvement would be welcome - "

"I'll believe it when I see it." The Deputy Chief of Staff's breath hissed out, like a boiler near the bursting point. "Man, I'll be glad when the President returns to work. Even his all-night trivia marathons are easier to take than this. I'm not sure what I feel more like these days: the manager of a kiddy camp, or the shepherd of a sheep farm."

She thought about that. "I'm not sure I like being compared to a sheep, Josh. No - scratch that. I *am* sure I *don't* like being compared to a sheep."

Now he *did* spare a glance aside at his running mate. "Why not? I've been riding herd on you since your first day here."

"You do like reminding me of that, don't you?"

"One of the perks of my job. And since I don't have many, I like to enjoy the few I've got." He had shifted into his smug-boss mode, still without slowing down.

Donna was starting to hyperventilate. "Do these perks include running laps through every corridor of the White House?" They had left the main foyer and were swinging back towards Communications. "How many miles have you clocked so far today?"

"I've lost count. Just consider this my substitute for physical training."

"And since when have you been interested in PT?"

Josh was pretty good at the deadpan humor himself, but his next reply could not be stripped of all its residual emotion. "Since I heard that judgment will be handed down tomorrow morning on public enemy number one. *Not* me."

It took only a moment for his assistant made the connection. "Ah." She paused, gathering air and thoughts together. "Well, then, you'd better pick up the pace if you want to be in shape for *that*." And she stopped, watching as he pulled away.

His fists were clenched, and not from the physical effort. "Sound advice."

"And Josh?"

This time he looked right around, meaning he had to stop to do so.

"Knock him dead." And Donna meant it quite literally. Her usual soft voice grated like stone.

He nodded back, just as serious. "That is the plan."

*****

One tried and true axiom in the West Wing was that you could never let your guard down for any length of time. Not even at night, and not even when you're *supposed* to be alone.

"Sam!"

He jumped in his seat, startled half to death, and scrambled with the papers across his desk in an air more of guilt than fear. *Then* the familiar voice was identified in his memory, and he relaxed and put a hand to his head in articulate relief.

"I've got to get a motion sensor, or something." He glanced up at Mandy, framed in his office doorway, arms folded and smiling with obvious pleasure at the reaction she'd earned. "All I need right now is for you to be Jasmine, or someone else even less desirable."

Mandy looked more closely at him, as though pondering dissection. "Which is to say, am I more or *less* desirable than your unwanted apprentice?"

He exhaled and waved both hands. "Look, this is really not the best time today to bawl me out for... for whatever it is you're about to bawl me out. You'll get a much more vociferous reaction tomorrow, I promise." And returned to his work.

She permitted him to jot down two more words before interrupting again. "I take it the tension is still rather high around here for your liking."

He didn't look up, but any conversation forced him to stop writing. "Spot on, Sherlock. Maybe those mysteries of yours are paying off after all."

This political consultant ignored his sarcasm, while exploiting his lapse in concentration shamelessly. "So where is she?"

"I sent her out for supper."

Mandy couldn't prevent an unladylike chortle. "Supper."

Now Sam raised his head. "*Yeah.* I needed the breather, our people need the rations, and I thought I might finally be able to pass on my long-standing role as the White House delivery boy. Besides, if she's going to stick around, she might as well make herself useful."

"Looks like there might be hope after all - you're finally learning to delegate."

Sam looked down. "Your support is immeasurable." Like he really meant that.

Mandy watched him some more. "You know," she proposed at length, again forcing him to pause in his scripting, "I could've saved you a lot of effort. Clarice figured out pretty fast just how far she could go with *me*. If you want lessons sometime, let me know. I'll give you a reduced rate."

"I'll make a note of your offer." He gamely resumed, one painfully slow word at a time between each individual thought. "Not that I don't delight in our conversation here, but I really *should* get this done before Jaz turns up beside you. On the President's Secret Service, you know."

"And you guys accuse *me* of watching thrillers, Mr. Bond." Mandy shook her head in self-vindication. Then she added, "Don't forget: staff at eight. Or should I come and get you?"

This time Sam spoke through gritted teeth - and *not* because she wouldn't leave him in peace. "No chance I'll forget *that*. Which is why I have no recriminations to spare for *you* right now. I'm saving them all up towards one big transaction."

His favorite tormentor was not joking now, either. "Not a bad idea." And hesitated one more time. "Oh, by the way... you might want to work on that innocent act of yours. I'm letting you off light: Jaz wouldn't."

This helpful hint only soured Sam's mood further. "Input's always welcome."

*****


	16. And the World Stood Still 16

**And The World Stood Still**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed & Co.  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.  
**Author's Note:** I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place. 

* * *

Wednesday, 8:00 A.M.

Any person can hire bodyguards if he or she so desires. However, few indeed ever get to boast of receiving protection from the United States Secret Service, that elite force recognized worldwide for its high standards. The President, certainly. The President's immediate relatives. The President's Chief of Staff. The *Vice*-President, and his closest family. *Former* Presidents. And, theoretically, anyone else in the company of these individuals as well.

Add to that exclusive list one Stanley Bernardo.

And right now *his* enemies outnumbered everyone else's combined.

This procession through the White House provided bald evidence to that claim. An escort by these faceless, unsmiling men in black suits never failed to draw attention. However, their protectee today was no public face, but just a common citizen, a virtual unknown.

And yet, his identity was never in doubt.

He walked along, flanked fore and aft, much like any other visiting dignitary. He wore both a suit and a tie as befits a guest to this famous address. But his shoulders were painfully hunched, his countenance bespoke of fear rather than pride, and his stride totally lacked the assurance common to most people granted such an honor guard. His gaze turned constantly to either side, clearly uneased by the historic corridors all around.

Every employee in sight stopped working to stare at him.

A single red half-healed slice ran across his forehead, like the brand of Cain.

No one said a thing, either the passers-by or the spectators. The journey continued in quivering silence. Yet it bore a fearful similarity to a Death Row inmate walking that "Last Mile".

And the faces on the sidelines wore near-identical grimaces of condemnation.

The accused would have given just about anything in the world to flee this hallowed building at a dead run. The half-dozen stony Secret Service agents were not about to grant that option, for professional and *not*-so-professional reasons. So far they had permitted him the sole dignity of walking under his own power; if need be, they would drag him by the elbows. So he marched helplessly onward, head bowed by guilt, features flushed with shame, flayed by waves of hatred at every step.

One last door swung open - and he stopped short at the sight of the Oval Office's full length spread out before him.

This unique chamber vibrated with potent history and sheer political power. Its sacred precincts should not be trod by the cursed footfalls of a traitor.

Sunlight streamed through the ceiling-high windows that faced onto the back lawn, dazzling white. Its purity distorted the shapes of five men and two women who stood together at the room's far end. Indistinct at this distance, gray silhouettes outlined by silver fire. Like ghosts. Or angels - angels of death.

Waiting for him.

More terrified than if this was the gas chamber itself, the prisoner couldn't bring himself to move. One of his escorts put a big hand on his shoulder and guided him firmly from behind, with admirable restraint. Forcing him to step forward and face his sentencing.

Not until he had been pushed right up to the presidential seal did that hand allow him to stop. His guards fell back a bit, leaving him in the room's very center. Alone and unprotected, the focus of those seven people - and, indeed, the entire country.

In silence, he stood there, and shook.

"Welcome, Mr. Bernardo," Vice-President Hoynes said at last, breaking the awful quiet. He'd been in the papers and on TV often enough over several years (and especially of late) to be identified by most Americans. Besides, only one other man would dare stand behind that desk. He looked exactly like a Supreme Court Justice on the Bench, ready to pronounce judgment. He spoke civilly, but his expression was stern.

The other six could not be so easily named, usually glimpsed following well behind the President or lingering discretely to one side. Still, they had to be important people or else they wouldn't be here in the first place. They looked exactly like a scaled-down jury, lined up to the right. None spoke aloud, but their expressions were damning.

The prisoner didn't even attempt to respond to that greeting. No one had to remind him that he wasn't here for polite conversation.

The Vice-President went on in the same tone: outwardly polite, yet hinting at darker things just under the surface. "I'll bet this isn't the occasion you'd have chosen to pay your first visit to the White House, let alone the Oval Office."

The prisoner was still too petrified to answer. He tried desperately not to meet the eyes of the other six; they reminded him of nothing so much as half a dozen savage guard dogs straining against their leashes. Straining for him.

He could *feel* the heat of their united vision. Perspiration beaded his crawling skin.

"Well, you needn't fear that this is going to be your execution chamber," the Vice-President went on with deceptive calm. "We have other rooms set aside for that."

Where? *In* the White House itself?

"But all of us here work closely with the President." Which explained the rage they openly wore, more intense even than what had bombarded the prisoner in the halls outside. "And we all wanted to meet you, since we have a *personal* interest in your future."

That almost sounded as if they planned to play a direct role in his death sentence!

And from the charged atmosphere, they'd like nothing better.

"Of course," the Vice-President continued, "what's done is done, and not all the influence of the United States Government can undo it. Any sort of justice, whatever form it takes, will be a poor recompense for the injury you've caused."

This presidential stand-in was at his most impressive; he had risen to the occasion of national leadership very well indeed. Now he strode around the desk and closed the gap, as though his very proximity would crush the prisoner in place.

"All I can say right now is, it's a damn good thing you won't be driving again, *ever*. And an even better thing that on your last ride you weren't driving any faster!"

Did he really mean that? After all, if not for the accident John Hoynes would not have the fantastic opportunity to rule that he was now enjoying.

He sure *sounded* sincere. The prisoner shrank all the more.

The Vice-President drew breath to further drive his point home, when the sound of a door opening at the back of this oblong office distracted everyone. The prisoner dared not move; he just watched, in fresh trepidation, as Hoynes looked past him at who dared interrupt - and suddenly stiffened. A covert glance to the right showed that the other six had adopted the same stance: surprise, tinged with concern... and perhaps even pleasure.

What could possibly be happening NOW?

Quiet descended and held for several seconds, until the Vice-President turned back to their "guest". With a new air, of something like anticipation. And, with a sharp movement of head and eyes, indicated that he was to turn as well.

Fearing the worst conceivable fate, he slowly obeyed.

It *was* the worst thing he could imagine. The new arrival was President Bartlet himself.

Oh, how he wanted to just die right here, right now. To sink through the floor, to incinerate in fiery holocaust this very instant. *Anything* rather than face the man he'd almost killed.

Never mind that it was the President of the United States...

"Morning, all," that famous voice greeted everyone at large. "We're certainly up and at it early today."

Their Chief Executive had not entered under his own power; his injuries would keep him in that wheelchair for some time to come. He wore a tailored shirt, collar open, under a V-neck sweater that hung noticeably loose on his convalescing frame, and casual slacks with the right pant-leg slit up to the knee. The cast on that lower leg was glaringly evident, likewise the splint on his left hand and arm, and the gauze bandage encircling his crown. A dull red scrape marred one cheekbone, almost scabbed over; a bruise half-ringed one eye, just starting to fade. Clothes and combed hair did a lot to reduce the image of a disheveled invalid; still, his features were paler than normal, and his posture hinted at a persistent discomfort.

He might be getting around now, but he wouldn't be *up* for awhile yet.

A young black man walked behind the chair, providing propulsion. The First Lady - utterly unmistakable - and a teenage girl who could only be one of the First Daughters flanked both sides. More Secret Service agents followed them into the room and closed the door behind.

The silence endured and the tension mounted as the wheelchair advanced to less than four feet away. Effectively surrounding the prisoner with all of his accusers.

He backed up two steps, seized by an overwhelming compulsion of flight. But there was nowhere to run.

Now all other eyes in this great chamber weren't focused just on the condemned. Instead, they alternated between him and the man who faced him across that carpet seal. But he himself was magnetized by one pair only.

Clear and blue, they studied him levelly and formed their own conclusions. There was frost in their depths, and probably pain - but also the merest inkling of... amusement?

"You must be Stanley Bernardo."

The prisoner couldn't have uttered a sound to save his life. Many citizens cherished a golden dream to merit the attention of the President. But this was the blackest of nightmares: to earn that attention by being convicted of high treason.

Often enough Jed Bartlet had been known to merrily introduce himself on first acquaintance, as if *anyone* could not know who he was. This morning, however, he seemed to be content with a few seconds of quiet contemplation rather than an ice-breaking wisecrack. Suspense filled every cubic foot of air around them all in ever-increasing pressure as the President calmly sized up the individual who had - temporarily at least - removed him from office.

The thunder that shadowed every other face present remained curiously absent from their Commander-in-Chief, who had the greatest reason to feel it.

"I'm glad we've finally met. As you can imagine, I've heard quite a bit about you. Still, hearsay can't take the place of one's own impressions."

He chose not to elaborate on those impressions. The prisoner didn't know if he should be grateful or not. He was trembling too hard under that cool inspection to think.

"You appear to have come through this ordeal fairly well. That's good." The President made no direct comparison to himself, but the contrast between one superficial wound and immobilizing damage shrieked almost audibly.

"I gotta tell you, I sure wish these limousines came with airbags. I'm told that yours worked just fine that night. Somebody make a note: we should send a bill to Congress. After all, limos are rather popular in this town. Might have something to do with it being the seat of government where all the political heavyweights meet; I don't know."

No one moved, even to smile at this light humor during such a strained moment. Certainly the prisoner had no idea how to react.

The President glanced around. "Hey, let me handle the introductions. After all, everyone here feels like they've known you for awhile now."

He started with the women standing on either side, and his devotion to them both shone forth. "This is my wife Abbey, and our youngest daughter Zoey."

Both were silent and grim, each resting a protective hand on one presidential shoulder. No need to explain how *they* had felt during this crisis. Abbey's taut stance suggested she was ready to throw the Hippocratic Oath out the window and do some harm herself, and Zoey's image of child-like hurt could have raised a throat-lump in a marble statue.

"You have any family who are worried about you, Stan?"

Caught even further off-balance by the relaxed question, the prisoner jerkily shook his head. "Uh - n-no. At least, none really close - sir."

"Oh, that's too bad. Your family is the greatest source of comfort and strength you'll ever know." The President paused for emphasis. "But they're not the *only* support I've been blessed with lately, I can tell you."

He tried, and failed, to crane his head around enough to see the young man directly behind him. "Charlie here is my personal aide. We like to refer to him as my body man - which is particularly appropriate right now, since he has to push me around everywhere."

Charlie held himself still. His dark skin made a scowl even more ominous, and the whites of his eyes gleamed.

"I'm sure you've seen Vice-President Hoynes before this, if only on the news." The Vice-President likewise did not move, actually appearing more dangerous than the one man who outranked him. "The Twenty-fifth Amendment has tossed him rather abruptly into the shark-infested deep end of federal politics. But with his help, at least the government isn't going to suffer from our little mix-up Friday."

Was that true? Conflict between the man in power and the runner-up to that power could happen anywhere. Even here. Still, the President seemed to mean every word.

"Leo McGarry, my Chief of Staff and my oldest friend. And after all these years he still can't trust me not to get into trouble of *some* kind."

Leo didn't smile, regardless of his boss's efforts in that regard. He looked the most senior person here by a year or two, and was doing a great impression of a wrathful patriarch.

"The rest of my staff has been no less upset with me, I can tell you. They take their jobs pretty seriously. Oh, I advise them not to let their loyalties run wild, but sometimes they just won't listen to me."

The five senior staff members remained silent and cold. The President looked at each warmly, the prisoner in growing panic. Josh Lyman's brows and mouth each formed a straight, angry line. Toby Ziegler glared down his nose, head tilted back like a disapproving taskmaster. CJ Cregg glowered under her auburn bangs, head tilted forward like a charging rhino. Sam Seaborn's dark eyes were narrow laser beams of pure intensity. Mandy Hampton wore a faint smirk, as though envisioning the punishment to come.

Apparently The Man didn't intend to bear a grudge personally... but if this were left up to his closest employees there would be blood to pay yet.

"And there's one more that couldn't make it here today: Kevin Duane, the Secret Service agent who was riding with me. He's still in the hospital, and he won't be out anytime soon." The President hesitated, and there was no levity in his voice now. "I still can't get over it - he threw himself right in front of me when he saw you coming. I really wish he hadn't done that; the poor guy was smashed up to a terrible degree."

The prisoner cringed.

"People keep saying that's what he was paid to do, but I just can't make myself feel that way about it. In any event, he's earned the highest honor I can give, although that's not much compensation for a broken back."

Several people nodded their whole-hearted agreement. Even if the President made a complete recovery, they'd still have reason to demand full justice.

"Hey, Stan, maybe you can drop in on him later, huh? When he's up to receiving visitors. I plan to see him myself. I think it'd be good for both of us."

That was a request, not a command - but how could anyone think of refusing? "I-I will." Stammering badly, the prisoner struggled for some self-control, for words to accurately convey his utter remorse. "Sir, you'll never know how sorry I am..."

"Well, you'll know not to try that kind of stunt again, right?"

This time he gave a somewhat clumsy bow, as though offering his neck to the executioner's ax right here. "Never again, sir. You've got my word: I'll never touch another drop."

Unnoticed by almost everyone, the Chief of Staff looked down. Very grateful that he himself hadn't learned to quit *this* way.

The President glanced in that direction; he *had* noticed.

His smile proclaimed that the issue had been settled to his satisfaction. "Well, after a pledge of allegiance like that, what more need be said?"

No one challenged his statement verbally, although the other attitudes present did not yet include forgiveness.

Abbey shifted her supportive hand from her husband's shoulder to his arm, a motion so natural that it registered on no one else.

"Now if we could only get that point across to more - " And the President abruptly started to cough.

Every other spine went rigid. The sound was not quite as harsh as yesterday's, and seemed to cost slightly less in physical effort, but listening helplessly to it still pierced the heart. His wife and daughter steadied him as much as possible; however, little could be done except wait until he was through. Which they all did, with winces of concern.

The anguish of the prisoner himself could not have been faked. He flinched at each cough as though they represented the blows from a whip.

The President rallied quickly enough, to giant collective relief. Pressed a hand to his chest, as if that would restrain the next spell from breaking forth. Managed a few deep, uninterrupted breaths, and finally straightened with a sigh.

"*Don't* say it," he ordered defiantly. "I'm fine, and getting better."

To wholesale surprise, it was the prisoner who disobeyed.

"My stupid carelessness has caused *all* of this."

Every head yanked back; almost every face switched from empathy to fury.

The President raised a hand. "Don't dwell on it, Stan. That won't do either of us any good." He smiled anew in total unconcern. "Besides, I'm determined to prove that my doctors are just too pessimistic. And I can't wait to get back in the saddle. These folks will tell you that I don't *take* orders that well sometimes."

A few brief grins endorsed this.

Then seriousness re-established itself, and the President leaned forward a bit. "You realize that I can't protect you from the legal ramifications of all this."

The prisoner hung his head. He deserved no quarter in the slightest.

"Still, I'll help as much as I can." Now that was a generous offer indeed, coming from the resident of the Oval Office *and* the victim in this particular court case. "It'll send a stronger public message against drunk driving than if I let my people here seek summary retribution themselves."

That might have been intended as a joke, but the expressions of those six staffers were still concentrated and menacing.

The President settled back in his seat. "So what exactly happened out there, anyway? Call it morbid curiosity if you like, but your perspective would've been better than mine."

The prisoner gazed down at him. And, slowly, allowed the dreadful images to return to the surface of his tormented memory.

"I - really don't know, sir. Most of it's just a blur. I was feeling fine. Not drunk at all. Driving along... everything seemed perfectly normal..."

<< The streetlights flashing by, the radio playing... >>

"And then ahead of me I saw a green *and* a red traffic light. Or so I thought. And I still don't know why, but I just completely freaked out."

<< The swerve of lost control; sudden, sobering panic... >>

"I tried to recover - I tried to brake - and then - "

<< A long black shape directly ahead, no possibility of missing it, hands thrown up to block out the sight of death's approach... >>

Silence permeated, not diluting the moment.

The President spoke first, softly, with a solemn nod. "I will say this: it was an extraordinary experience. Although I sure wouldn't wish it on anyone else."

<< Boring headlights, cold realization, teeth clenched against inevitable disaster, a human form diving in front, screeching rubber, shattering glass... blackness... >>

"It's regrettable that these kinds of things have to happen at all, and that people get hurt in the process. But at least no one was killed. We should be grateful for that small mercy."

For the moment. Duane's survival was still no sure thing.

Silence resumed, respectful of all the pain, all the horror, all the worry that had been endured by everyone.

"Now I have a favor to ask you, Stan."

The prisoner's head came up. Might this be his first step towards whatever reparation he could possibly make?

"Yes, SIR. Name it!"

The President held his eyes, searching for the strength within.

"I don't know what kind of a sentence you can expect. But I do want you to deal with it the best way you possibly can." Pause. "And one thing that might help would be to tell your side of this. You're already a celebrity; you might as well go public for the right reasons. You could be quite a strong advocate of what can happen - and what can be prevented."

Several seconds ticked by while this message sank in. And then the prisoner's face cleared. Awkwardly, as though he'd forgotten how, he drew himself up with some vestige of pride.

"I will. I swear to you, sir, I will."

Now the President smiled broadly. "Sounds like a deal."

At his word of approval, nothing more needed be said. The tension did not dissipate completely, but it dropped to a much more tolerable level.

Time to loosen up a bit. "By the way, I want to compliment you on your aim. If you had to hit *something*, at least it was one of those small-scale tanks. Any other car in the motorcade - or, for that matter, in the city - wouldn't have had a chance."

And all present noted that clear concern for his staff *and* his fellow citizens.

"And you should be particularly grateful that you ran into me. It could have easily been someone important."

This time the laughter couldn't be denied. Even the prisoner, to his amazement, found himself chuckling along.

The President did *not* laugh. "I'm serious! *Every* other American life is more valuable than mine. That's the whole point to being a public servant... especially the public servant that holds court in this room."

Now that message had many layers. The Vice-President fidgeted just a bit.

The President gave no sign of noticing *that*.

"So! No hard feelings, okay?" And he extended his right hand.

The prisoner could not believe this. He didn't deserve any kind of personal forgiveness. It took him perhaps three long heartbeats to actually accept it, and reach out himself.

He could barely whisper, blinking rapidly, as moved as though he'd been handed back his entire life. "*Thank you*, sir."

Their grip bridged a much greater division than mere social status and even legal due process. It signified the end to a saga of both anxiety and vindictiveness. In a real sense, it was a pledge of unification.

Their Chief Executive nodded. "Fine. I hereby decree that all hatchets are buried for good." Which meant that everyone else was to forget about nursing resentments as well.

Several people shuffled their feet. Obeying this order would not be easy - but the boss had spoken.

"All right, enough formality for one day. Come on, gang; back to work." The President straightened himself as best he could, almost visibly resuming the mantle of his office. "We have to do a thing next door. I've kept the nation waiting long enough." And he looked directly at his guest. "Stan, I'd like you to be there as well, if you're up to it."

Like he'd turn down his Commander-in-Chief on *anything* now. Even standing before the hard public eye would not be too much to ask.

Side by side, one walking and one riding, trailed by seven employees, two family members, one official substitute and half a dozen bodyguards, the President and the prisoner exited the Oval Office... and entered a barrage of camera flashes, cheers and applause shared by the White House Staff, the White House Press Corps, the American people, and the world.

*****


End file.
